


bittersweet & delicate (tomorrow may not come again)

by tolvsmol



Series: bittersweet & delicate [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (fionn is barely there and niall is not), Biphobia, Break Up, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, anne is pregnant and robin's a bit of a dick, anxiety mentions later on, copious use of italics and strikethrough and the word fuck, im very sorry about everything in this i promise it has a happy ending, jay is sick and harry is depressed, liam deserves better, like a grossly happy ending, spoiler alert: zayn is the one whos dead im sorry, they all do, use of petnames is borderline disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11364636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolvsmol/pseuds/tolvsmol
Summary: “I wanna promise you the sun and the moon and the stars and everything in between in the entire cosmos.”“What about something a bit more realistic?”God,Louis was everything.Everything.“I’ll choose you, always,” Louis promised, eyes infinitely softer, fingers just a whisper on Harry’s cheek, “whatever happens, whenever it happens, I’ll always choose you.” He tugged Harry forward, molding their lips together in an innocent kiss.—•—or the au where louis gives up on harry and harry wants to give up on everything





	1. stop looking for him

**Author's Note:**

> helloo! this fic in kind of based on the song '24 floors' by the maine and that's where the title comes from. the story deals heavily with depression and focuses quite a bit on zayn's death, so if that's something that triggers you, please be careful. i'll add a note before the chapter with the suicide attempt so you know when it's coming. if you have any questions before reading, please ask me on [my tumblr](https://rosesau.tumblr.com) and i'll do my best to answer.
> 
> [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/ishtonxrwin/playlist/30AJg8yMcxl03YRQ3YMs3D) is the playlist for the fic. happy reading! x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry thinks about a lost friend and a lost lover.

There’s a car driving somewhere in the distance, on the main road. He can hear the quiet rumble of the engine as it passes through the road and then all is silent.

For November, the night is particularly chilly and cold air nips at his face, biting the tip of his nose and stinging his eyes a bit. Harry is wearing a turtleneck sweater that shields his neck and a hat that protects his ears from the harsh wind, but his face is bare to the elements. He doesn’t remember if he it’s meant to rain or snow tonight, doesn’t remember if he even checked the weather forecast. Nothing really seems to matter much these days. Not that it really did before. Perhaps a little more so than now, but it wasn’t a significant difference. Only one thing mattered then and it’s the one thing Harry will never forget.

Shoving his hands deep in pockets at his waist, Harry keeps walking, keeps putting one foot in front of the other. He dimly registers that the sky is hazy, the moon and the stars hidden safely by a thick blanket of clouds. He hears John O’Callaghan’s voice in his ears, paying half a mind to the words the man is singing. The rest of Harry’s attention darts between the argument with his stepfather and the desperation on his mother’s broken face. Part of him dashes to Zayn’s family, his mother and his sisters. He doesn’t want to think about them. Then there’s Liam’s face – broken, tired.

 _One after another_ , he tells himself. One step after another.

The streets are empty this time of night, or morning, if he’s getting technical. It was nearing three a.m. when he sat up in his single bed, panting and sweating and shaking and hardly fucking breathing. Maybe he shouldn’t have – breathed, that is. Maybe he should have just stayed under the cover and let himself hyperventilate until his brain was deprived of oxygen enough for him to die. Or pass the fuck out for a few hours, at least. Anything to keep his mind from straying to the things and faces and people that haunted his nightmares.

They aren’t nightmares, is the thing. They’re all real things that have happened or could happen and Harry is so fucking tired and terrified and guilty.

There’s movement next to Harry’s legs and he bites down on his lip to strangle the scream he would’ve let out otherwise. Glancing down in the dark night, relief shakes his spine as he makes out a blurry shape twining around his ankle. A cat. Harry knows her. She doesn’t have a home, she wanders the streets day and night, takes refuge in people’s yards or living rooms when she pleases, likes to have her ears scratched, and is blind in one eye. Zayn named her Allie Cat two and a half years ago when she’d cautiously, hesitantly sauntered over to them on Harry’s front porch.

“Hi, Allie.” The words are barely a whisper, almost drowned by the wind that’s starting to howl. Harry bends down on one knee and gently pushes his fingers in her brown fur, scratching just behind her ears. He’s rewarded when she rubs her nose against his leg and Harry can almost feel the floodgates opening. _One after another,_ he reminds himself.

Allie Cat claws at Harry’s legs and he has known her long enough to have learned her silent language. Fighting tears and an unexpected traitorous smile simultaneously, Harry picks up the cat in his arms, holding her close to his chest. His fingers don’t stop behind her ear as he turns around the corner and walks onto the main road.

Cradling Allie Cat in his arms, who is now snuggling into his sweater for warmth, Harry crosses the deserted road, eyes on the bridge. He is, technically, walking on the bridge. In just a few feet – thirty, forty, Harry doesn’t know – the road will end, and Harry will be looking at the motorway. It’s probably one of the few perks of living in this part of town, Harry thinks. He can escape here during the dying hours of the night, not a soul to be seen around.

By the time he reaches the thick railing at the edge of the road, the music is just a blur of sound in Harry’s ears. He knows it’s playing, he can hear the words, but he’ll be damned if he can tell what song he’s listening to or what the words are. It’s all just _noise_ . So much fucking noise. It’s dead silent apart from his music, but it’s so fucking _loud_ . The wind is screaming his name (and crying Zayn’s, too). The cat in his arms is purring uncharacteristically, and only a small, almost nonexistent sliver of Harry’s soul is happy about making that happen. His own heart is fucking hammering against his chest, like it’ll break through his ribcage any second and it fucking _hurts_.

 _Not your fault_ , he forces himself to remember. There isn’t any part of him that believes it. He doesn’t think there ever will be, either, not if he’s half as decent a person as he deludes himself into thinking he is. Not if he has any fucking respect for his best friend. Not if he has any shred of humanity left.

 _Not your fault._   ~~Always your fault.~~

Harry sits down on the pavement right at the edge of the road, his legs dangling off it and thigh pressed into the metal bar supporting the rail. He bows his head and leans his forehead against the cold metal, eyes staring down at the empty motorway beneath. There aren’t any cars on the road where is, save for the one he’d heard earlier that is long gone by now. Below, a lone van crawls through the night with only one working headlight. Harry wonders idly where it’s going at this time. Not that it matters. Not that anyone is obligated to have a destination in mind. Maybe that van is like Harry, going nowhere at all and hoping it’ll get somewhere. He selfishly hopes it does.

He’s been very selfish as of late. First with Gemma, then Zayn, Liam, Zayn’s family, his mother. He’s been so fucking selfish. Asking and demanding and taking and never giving. No, Harry has not given anything to anyone in a long time. He wonders, idly, how quick it would be to take one more thing – from himself this time. How easy it would be. His life isn’t worth that much, anyway. Never has been, if he’s being truthful with himself. He wonders, uselessly, if anyone would miss him. Gemma, perhaps. Maybe his mother. Or, maybe, they would both be glad to be rid of him. Maybe they would appreciate not having to fight the same battles every week. Maybe they would send a silent thank you to the heavens for finally giving them some fucking peace. Maybe. It’s all a big fucking maybe.

Harry is still listening to John O’Callaghan with half a beating heart. The wind is still whipping against his face and back. Big, heavy drops of rain start falling down on him and Harry readjusts his arm to shield Allie Cat from it. He doesn’t move otherwise, though. He stays sitting on the edge of the world, staring at the pavement beneath and wondering what it would be like if he were to scoot forward just another foot. Would it feel like flying or falling? He is desperate to find out. His heart thunders with the sky. The ground beneath him is suddenly freezing and his sweatpants are soaked with the rain. Palms sweating despite the cold weather and head swimming with thoughts too fast for him to concentrate on anything, Harry inches forward, slowly. So, so slowly. His heart skips a beat, maybe several, and it’s painful, but he keeps moving.

 _Just a little more,_ he thinks. And then he’ll fly.

And then, in a split second, it hits him that he’s still holding Allie Cat and all the breath gets knocked out of him; he cannot tumble to his death with her in his arms. He cannot tumble to his death while she watches. He scoots back immediately, chest rising and falling too fast and too little air getting to his lungs. Lowering his head, he presses his lips to the top of her head. “I love you, you strange creature.” The words disappear in her fur.

Harry keeps her curled in his lap as he pulls his sweater over his head and wraps the cat in it, protecting her from the rain that’s falling painfully hard now. Getting to his feet shakily, Harry stares at the motorway again. He’ll come back. Tomorrow night, maybe. Or the next night. Or the night after next. He doesn’t know when, but he’ll come back. Phone shoved in the pocket of his sweatpants and earbuds still pushed in his ears, Harry starts the walk back home.

Home, he thinks, is a funny word. Almost cruel. Because the place he considered home for almost two decades is now just four walls keeping him prisoner and suffocating him day in and day out. Home, he thinks, is something he might never have again. And, strangely, the idea doesn’t leave him aching. Maybe the likes of him and Allie Cat are meant to be alone. Maybe, just maybe, the loneliness will be the end of him.

*

The house looks bleak even from the outside, as though it’s trying to warn away any unsuspecting newcomers. Or maybe it’s just the weather, Harry thinks, because the house he’s grown up in should not look so threatening, so smothering. The curtains are drawn from the inside, and all the lights are put out – not even the one on the porch is on. Water drips from the rooftop, hitting the steps and the ground with a continuous _splat_. Harry doesn’t particularly want to go in, but he knows he has to. It’s probably past four in the morning, if he were to hazard a guess, which means Robin might be waking up in an hour or so.

Harry isn’t very keen on seeing the man at this hour. Or at any hour, really.

Once he’s on the porch, he sets Allie Cat down and she shakes herself out of his sweater. At this point, Harry is dripping. Every inch of him is thoroughly soaked and he knows he’ll make a right mess all the way to the bathroom, but he can’t be arsed to care much about it. “You’ll be good, yeah?” he talks to the cat as if she understands him. He knows she doesn’t in the slightest, but she meows in response and Harry holds the front door open for her to step through. She doesn’t – just stares up at him through one eye. After a moment, Harry walks in alone and shuts the door behind him.

Leaving a trail of water behind him, Harry trudges up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he peels off his clothes and dries off. His hair is still wet, and will be for a while, but that’s okay. The cold makes him feel something and something is better than nothing. When he finally makes it back to bed, he’s wearing an old sweater that barely provides any warmth and shorts that don’t help; he’s only covered up because he’s under the same roof as his mother.

It’s 4:47 a.m. when Harry checks his phone. He wants to sleep. He does, he wants to shut away his thoughts for a while. He wants to not see Zayn’s face every second of every day now, he wants to forget the way people look at him when they realize who he is, he wants to fall headfirst into oblivion and not wake up for a long, long, long time. But sleep doesn’t come easy to people with a guilty conscience. Harry watches the sun break through the horizon, coloring the sky with bloody reds and oranges. He hears the birds outside start chirping, waking up to another day that will be just like the last. He hears the quiet shuffling and moving from two doors down and he knows someone is awake. Eventually, he does fall asleep.

*

When Harry comes to again, his first thought is, _everything is too fucking bright_. Another moment passes and he realizes that someone has pushed aside the curtain, leaving his usually dim room too fucking bright. It’s not sunny out, so it isn’t like he’s staring at the damn sun, but it’s still uncomfortably bright in here. Then he notices his mother picking up dirty clothes off his floor.

Before Harry can say a good morning, Anne says, “Did it rain _in_ the house last night?” without turning around. How she realized he’s awake, Harry doesn’t know.

“Sorry,” is his automatic response.

 _“Harry, you missed dinner.”_ “Sorry, Mum.”

 _“Harry, you haven’t taken the rubbish out.”_ “Sorry.”

 _“Harry, you missed Liam’s call.”_ “I’m sorry.”

He’s so damn sorry these days he wonders if he will ever not be. Thing is, he isn’t actually sorry at all. All of it just seems so trivial to be sorry about.

“Morning, Mum,” is what he says instead. His mother throws his dirty shirts and pants in the hamper, and then comes to sit by him.

“It’s afternoon, honey,” she tells him, “Well past noon.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t –” Anne gets comfortable on his bed, stretching out her legs on the mattress, and puts an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Don’t be sorry, Harry. Are you okay?” She’s talks to him like she’s addressing a traumatized child now. Her voice goes all soft and slow, and she stays close to him.

And, yes, there are moments when Harry hates it. Absolutely detests it. Cannot fucking stand it because he doesn’t deserve any of her love and kindness and understanding. But she is his mum and if she isn’t loving and kind and understanding with him, then who will? It isn’t like he’s got a line of people waiting out the door ready to comfort him or lend a helping hand. Harry leans his head against her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he lies, because she doesn’t need to know the ugly truth. The baby inside her doesn’t need to hear that her big brother tried to kill himself last night and the only thing that kept him alive was a goddamn cat. Neither of them need to know that their son and brother is the biggest coward he knows and can’t face the nightmares he’s solely responsible for.  

 _Not your fault_. ~~Always your fault.~~

“Sweetheart,” his mother says, and Harry knows she caught him in his lie. She pushes her hand in his hair, fingers slowly undoing the knot in his chest and creating one in his stomach. “I’m here, yeah? You need to talk about something, I’m here. I’ll listen.”

“I know, Mum,” he says, because he does. It isn’t his mother who keeps stomping on Harry’s heart and giving him less and less reason to live every day. “I love you,” he adds, because he can’t remember the last time he said it.

He feels her press a kiss to his head. “More than you’ll ever know.”

They stay that way for a while, Harry leaning against her, one hand splayed on her swollen stomach. He tells the baby about his night, about walking in the rain with Allie Cat. He tells her how the cat found him those years ago. Anne talks about the first time she saw the cat, perched on Harry’s bed like she lived in the house and it bubbles a giggle out of Harry.

Anne freezes. As does Harry.

“What? What was that?”

A second passes, unbearably slow, and then Anne’s face splits into a smile that could light up the entire world. “She kicked.” Her hand presses on her belly next to Harry’s. Despite his blue mood, Harry feels a grin tug at his lips. When he feels movement again, Anne breathes, “Think she likes your voice.”

And, _oh_ , Harry’s heart cracks in half as the weight of his mother’s words hits him. _She likes your voice_ . His sister likes his voice. _She likes my voice_. Eyes wet and lips trembling, “I am so excited to meet you, little one. I can’t wait. My name’s Harry.” Anne squeezes his hand. “I’m your big brother.”

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a teeny tiny possibility, however fragile, that it’ll be okay.

*

It is not okay.

Harry knows something’s wrong, more so than usual, when he finally comes downstairs after his shower. His hair was still slightly damp from the rain and he just smelled like… like rain, really. And it wasn’t the nice summer rain. He smelled foul. So he showered and put on fresh clothes. Took a long minute to stare in the mirror and tell himself, _Don’t pull any funny shit today_.

Now he’s looking at his mum sat on the sofa, legs stretched out and back leaned against the armrest. There’s a deep crease between her eyebrows and she looks as though she’s just stopped crying, what with those glassy eyes and her phone in hand.

“What’s happened?” Harry asks, taking a seat at her feet.

“Liam called for you,” she says, and Harry heart sinks to his stomach. _Liam._ Before he can ask why, Anne continues, “Not just now. This morning, he rang. Said he’s been trying to reach out for a while.” And Harry doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or saddened or irritated or guilty. Too much. He’s been feeling too much these days. Too much and too little.

“He’s worried about you, sweetheart,” Anne says softly. “You need to talk to him soon.”

“I will,” Harry lies. He never wants to see Liam again. Okay, no, that’s a lie. He’s dying to see Liam, but he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to face his friend after what he did. Anne doesn’t need to know that, though. She’s got enough on her plate as it is. “What’s wrong, though? You look upset.”

Her already blue face falls even more. She takes a minute before speaking again, and Harry can see that she’s saying the words over and over again in her mind – testing them on her tongue and how they sound. It sets Harry on edge. “That was Jay on the phone,” she starts. Pause. “She’s got really advanced brain cancer and the doctors gave her only a couple of months.”

With each word out of his mother’s mouth, Harry’s world lurches before coming to a sudden halt. His thoughts are a tangled mess of _Jay_ and _cancer_ and _death_ and _Louis_ and _please, please stop_.

 _A couple of months_ echoes in his head and he has to take a long breath before he can say, “But she – what about the twins? And the girls?” _Does Louis know?_

Anne runs a hand over her face, worry lines etched into her forehead. “I’m going to see her in a bit. Louis is home, I think,” she tells him, and the knot in Harry’s chest loosens just a tiny bit. Louis being back is not a good thing, he tells himself. If the circumstances were different, Harry might be a little happy, a little nervous.

Now he feels like there’s an enormous rock where his heart should be.

There’s a hand on his knee, and Harry realizes his mother has sat up and she’s looking at him like she expects him to crumble to pieces right here on the sofa. “I asked, would you like to come with?” she says softly, hand squeezing his knee gently.

Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Harry manages to say, “No, I – I think I might go see Liam,” and he knows the words are a lie, but he can’t _, he can’t,_ go see Jay. Can’t face Louis and have him ask about what happened to Zayn – if he remembers Zayn, that is. Harry isn’t ready for it. Doesn’t know if he ever will be.

“Do you want me to drop you off at Liam’s?” asks his mum, and Harry shakes his head again. His lies will catch up to him one day, he knows, but he can’t seem to care. What does it matter, really.

“I think I’ll walk,” he tries to smile. Fails. Gives up. “Get a bit of fresh air and all.”

It’s quiet after that. Harry doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to say anything, because he’s tired of the death surrounding him and he just wants it to stop. Wants everything to pause for a bit while he catches his breath. That won’t happen, though, he knows, so he says a quiet goodbye to his mother and leaves the house knowing full well he won’t be visiting Liam.

It’s a dreary day and the outside matches how Harry feels on the inside, he thinks glumly. The sun is out, hidden somewhere behind a thick blanket of angry clouds. Any minute it could start raining and Harry wouldn’t be the least bit surprised. He walks down the street, his thoughts a million miles away. He hopes Liam doesn’t call for him again, or worse – calls him directly. He isn’t fucking ready for that confrontation. Five minutes later, he doubles back to the house and hops on his bike; it would take too damn long for him to walk.

He doesn’t know how long he pedals for, but it does start raining in that time – just a drizzle, but rain, nonetheless. By the time he parks his bike outside the cemetery, the sky is a dark gray. There’s a strange calm surrounding this place, Harry thinks, something eerily quiet and captivating. With a heavy heart and numb mind, Harry cuts his way through the graves until he finds the one he’s here for.

The tombstone reads: _Zayn Javadd Malik. 1993 – 2014. Son, Brother, Friend._ And, below that, the words are repeated in Zayn’s native language, along with something in Arabic.

Without warning, Harry’s vision blurs and he has to sit down on the ground because otherwise he would have fallen on his arse and, oh god, he shouldn’t have come here. It’s been three weeks since the night Zayn died, since the night he killed Zayn, and this is his first time here. He came to the funeral, sure, but he left before the coffin was buried. He left and nearly sprinted to his parents’ car, but he had to stop on the way and throw up the contents of his stomach. Since then, he’s thought about coming back a thousand times and never had the courage. He still doesn’t.

He’s shaking. His hands, his breath, his entire frame is shaking and he can hardly fucking breathe, so he puts his head between his knees and closes his eyes.

 _Goddamn, Zayn,_ he thinks, _I’m so sorry._

A second, a minute, maybe an hour passes before Harry can breathe again, before he can see again, and when he lifts his head, he notices fresh flowers on the grave – as in, someone left them here today. And just like that, something punches Harry’s chest and he says again, out loud this time, “Z, I’m so so fucking sorry.” He barely hears his voice.

What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say to his dead best friend? How is he supposed to make any of this better? Zayn was the one who used to help Harry with his dilemmas, who always knew what to say and do. Now he’s dead and it’s no one’s fault but Harry’s.

“I wish,” he whispers, and it’s _hard_ – so damn hard to talk through the lump in throat, “I wish I could take your place. God, I wish – I wish so badly I could go back in time. Keep you safe.” His words get strangled on a sob that wracks through his spine and _fuck_ this isn’t fair. “It should’ve been me.”

He reaches out to touch the white flowers and they’re soft under his fingers, so soft. “Couldn’t look your mum in the eye, y’know?” His face is wet, but Harry doesn’t care. No one is around to see him and it wouldn’t matter if there was. He’s in a goddamned cemetery. “Couldn’t look your sisters in the eye.” He remembers the funeral, remembers the two times he saw Zayn’s family after he died. “Your mum, she told me it’s not my fault, that I shouldn’t blame myself. But, Z, I could see it in her eyes she didn’t believe it.” He’s breathless, but he owes it to Zayn to get these words out. It’s the only thing he can do now. “I _know_ she wishes it was me in the ground right now instead of you. _I_ wish it was me.”

“And your sisters, Jesus, they couldn’t stop crying.” Harry remembers them all clinging to one another, their sobs silent and muffled during the funeral, their eyes red and swollen, their faces devoid of the usual makeup they so loved. “They didn’t say a word to me. Why would they? I stole their only brother from them. God, _fuck_ , I picture Gemma in their place and I want to fucking die. I did this to them. I’m so sorry. Please, please, know that I am _so_ sorry. I would trade places in a heartbeat.”

Harry knows he has talked more in the last however long it’s been than he and Zayn ever did in hours. Sure, they talked, but never in so many words. They were so in tune with each other, so intimately familiar with each other’s ins and outs – and it was only fair that they were, considering they knew each other all their lives. Still, they communicated more in knowing glances and inside jokes than they did in confessions, but right now Harry doesn’t know if there are enough words in the English language that could convey what he wants to tell Zayn.

Harry fiddles with the rip in his jeans, his fingers trembling still. “Liam’s been calling Mum,” he says, and a breathless chuckle escapes his lips. It sounds almost hysterical. “I saw him at the hospital and at the funeral, but, like, I couldn’t talk to him. Or anyone, really. Still can’t.” Liam was supposed to be sleeping that night because he was sick – some kind of stomach bug, but instead he was woken up at some ungodly hour by a call that, if Harry had to guess, shattered his entire world to pieces. He came to the hospital a shirt that Harry knew belonged to Zayn and shorts that Liam never wore in public. His hair was a mess that night. Everything was a mess.

All Harry could say to Liam then was, “He fell, Liam. He just – he – _we_ were drunk and he fell and I just – I couldn’t stop him.”

That wasn’t true, of course. Harry could’ve stopped it all from happening. He just didn’t.

“What do I tell him, Z?” Harry asks. Zayn doesn’t respond from where he’s buried. “I can’t look at him, not without seeing your face and remembering everything. Reliving it over and over again.” He’s whispering, he thinks, but he still lowers his voice when he says, “I can’t fucking sleep at night. Haven’t been able to since then. I went to bridge last night, y’know, I almost fucking jumped. But damn Allie Cat was in my lap and I just – I couldn’t do it. I’ll go back again,” he promises. “Tonight, or tomorrow night, I don’t know. But I just – I’m so tired, Z, and it’s so hard.” He blinks back tears. “I wish you were here. Everyone misses you so damn much. I miss you and I don’t know what to do. How to make any of this better for anyone.”

Because the truth is, life is shit for everyone around him. He realizes he’s only been talking and lamenting about hard he has it, when there’s someone out there literally fighting for her life.

“Remember Louis’ mum?” he asks quietly. Waits for a response like he’s gonna get one. “She learned how to make samosas for you? She’s got some kind of cancer and Mum said she hasn’t got much time.” Six months, Harry thinks. “I don’t – I haven’t seen Louis yet, but Mum said he’s back in town. I don’t know if I want to see him. It’s like, I know he probably isn’t okay because this is so, so shitty, and I kinda wanna be there to support him, but I just – I don’t know if I can, y’know? He left. He just fucking left.”

He falls silent because something in his chest tore at the mere thought of Louis and he’s left heaving for breath once again, his vision a blurred clusterfuck. _Fuck you_ , he thinks at Louis, _for still making me weak._ Blood rushes in his ears and he puts his head back between his knees, his fingers wrapped around his own wrist as he tries desperately to feel his pulse. It takes a minute for him to find it, and then a century for his breathing to mirror it. It’s something Zayn taught him how to do.

Then someone clears their throat and it takes Harry too long to react, too long to lift his head from between his knees and look over his shoulder. Takes even longer for him to register who he’s looking at. His mind is a muddled mess – thoughts flashing from the backseat of a car to unsealed letters to _Louis Louis Louis_ – and Louis is standing right there. He’s standing behind Harry with a small arrangement of flowers in his hands. He’s standing there towering over Harry, his expression soft – mouth turned down, eyebrows drawn.

“Hi,” he says, and _fuck_ , Harry can barely breathe and it’s getting so fucking old. He doesn’t know, can’t remember, how long it’s been since he last heard Louis’ voice, but it punches a hole through Harry and he scrambles to get to his feet, to not feel so damn small. It doesn’t work. He taller than Louis, yes, but standing doesn’t make Harry feel any bigger. He might as well be a foot tall.

 _Hi,_ he wants to say. _Where did you go?_ he wants to ask. _Why the fuck did you just_ leave _like that?_ he wants to know. But what comes out of his mouth is, “What are you doing here?” because, honestly, Harry wasn’t planning on seeing Louis today. Or tomorrow. Or any time in the near future. But here he is and here Louis is.

The first thing Harry notices is Louis’ white shirt, possibly the same one he’s had for years. ~~The same one Harry used to wear sometimes, yes, there’s the hole near the neckline.~~ He looks… different, of course – his hair looks a bit longer than Harry remembers, the longest strands from the fringe falling almost in his eyes. He looks older, too, but there’s the same air of ease around him that Harry is – was – so fond of. Dimly, Harry wonders what he must look like to Louis.

“I heard about what happened,” Louis says softly, his eyes flickering from Harry to the tombstone with Zayn’s name on it. “I, uh, I meant to come sooner, but it’s been, well, you know,” he rubs the back of his neck – a habit Harry knows almost comes like an instinct when Louis is nervous. He takes some childish comfort in that. “Everything with Mum is a bit overwhelming and, uh, it’s just kinda hard to do a lot of things.”

Harry knows what he should say, what the appropriate thing for him to say is, what the kind thing for him to say is, but his heart is crashing against his ribs hard enough to bruise and he says, “What are you doing _here?_ ” because Zayn and Louis were never the closest of friends. Yes, they were friends, but Zayn was Harry’s best friend and Louis was… Louis was Louis, but when he left and broke Harry’s heart, he effectively ended his friendship with Zayn. So, really, Harry doesn’t understand why Louis is here.  

Louis looks like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar after bedtime. “I just thought – I know I was away, but I just thought it would be nice to just, fuck, I don’t know, I just wanted to pay my respects, I suppose.”

And Harry wants to ask why, he wants to ask why about so many things. _Why do you want to pay any respects? You weren’t his friend,_ and _Why did you leave me like that? Why didn’t you say goodbye?_ and _Why didn’t you tell me you’re home?_ But he doesn’t ask any of that. He stares at Louis, words bubbling inside him and he keeps them all in. He isn’t going to beg for explanations. If Louis can’t be a decent enough person to offer the explanations himself, Harry isn’t going to grovel.  

“Have a nice day,” he says instead and walks away from Louis without another word, his breath coming in shallow gasps and heart bleeding on his sleeve.

*

Harry doesn’t go home.

He wants to, though. God, he just wants to go home and curl up in bed and fall asleep and maybe never wake up again. Seeing Louis like that – so unexpectedly and so suddenly, in a place where Harry was so vulnerable – left him feeling raw and exposed. He doesn’t know what he needs or what he wants, so he bikes to Zayn’s house. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’ll only tear him apart more, but he needs to get away from Louis – needs to get as far away from Louis as he can, and Zayn’s house will do that.

His own house is littered with ghosts of all things Louis.

The wonky tree in the backyard that Louis dared Harry to climb when they were eight (that’s half on his property and half on Miss Julie’s property). The kitchen counter where Harry kissed Louis and taught him Nan’s recipe for oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. The single bed where they spent countless nights in each other’s arms, Harry pretending to sleep sometimes when he was really listening to the steady beat of Louis’ heart. ~~(Louis once said it was beating to the rhythm of Harry’s name.)~~ The small coffee table where Louis painted Harry’s nails.

Harry needs to forget all about it. Louis being back in town doesn’t change a goddamn thing. Except for the fact that it changes everything.

Harry was doing fine. As fine as he could be. It took a while, but he convinced himself Louis wouldn’t be coming back, wouldn’t be apologizing. He patched up the gaping hole left in him, and it only ached once every blue moon. He let his wounded heart scar over and forced it to forget its mantra of _Louis Louis Louis_ – forced it to beat for Harry. Now, without warning, Louis is back with his starry eyes and his tantalizing smile and Harry’s heart is once again beating for that boy, for what they could have had together.

Perhaps, Harry thinks, there’s a universe in which they are a kinder and softer to one another, and to themselves, but in this one they are sharp and jagged, breaking and shattering.  

He ends up in Zayn’s back garden – or outside of it, anyway. He could easily hop the fence if he wanted, but he plops down on the concrete. It hasn’t rained, despite the grey sky and rolling clouds. It feels a bit like premonition, settling like a dead weight in his chest, except for the part where everything has already gone to utter shit and Harry doesn’t know how it can possibly get any worse. He stays seated on the ground and plugs in his earbuds, scrolling through and hitting shuffle on the playlist he and Zayn made last summer for their road trip.

As soon as Harry hears the drum beat for the first song in his ears, he forgets to breathe. He has heard this song a million times, could sing the words in his sleep. _What will you do on the weekends,_ John O’Callaghan whispers to him, _when your best friends become your dead friends?_ Harry’s crying again – goddamnit, does he ever stop – and his fingers scramble to exit out of this fucking playlist, to play something else – _anything_ else that doesn’t remind him of his best friend. After what feels like an eternity, he’s managed to switch to Spotify’s “Good Vibes” playlist.

This was a bad idea. Coming here was a terrible fucking idea and Harry has no clue what made him do it. He wanted to get away from Louis, wanted to forget all the hurt that Louis brought back, but sitting outside the house that used to belong to Zayn somehow hurts even more – because Zayn isn’t in it. Zayn will never be in it.

 _It’s your fault,_ an ugly voice from within reminds him. _You made sure he would never be in this house._

 _Shut up!_ Harry wants to scream at the universe. _I didn’t kill him! He was my best friend and I didn’t fucking kill him!_

But he did and he can’t ever do anything to make it right.

Harry doesn’t know how long he sits on the concrete outside the Malik house, but at some point, his music dims and he hears the distinct creak of the back door opening, and Harry shoots up to his feet. Out walks Zayn’s mum and sits on the single step that separates the house from the yard. She doesn’t see Harry; she just sits there – knees tugged up to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs. She looks impossibly small, incredibly fragile. Harry remembers when she used to have fire in her, when her small figure encompassed the entire room, regardless where she was.  He remembers looking into her eyes and feeling safe, like nothing could get past her and get to him.

Now she looks broken and Harry can’t watch. He turns his back to her and goes home.

*

Harry doesn’t eat dinner that night. When he gets back to the house, it’s empty. Robin must still be at work, or out with people from work, or getting drunk with people; Harry doesn’t know and doesn’t exactly care about his stepfather’s whereabouts. His mother isn’t home, either, and Harry guesses she’s probably still at Jay’s. He wonders fleetingly if she ran into Louis, if she gave him an earful for leaving without a single glance back.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself again, _he isn’t back for you and he isn’t back for good. Fucking get over it already._

Harry spends the rest of his evening neglecting life and any responsibilities and obligations he might have, including Liam. Liam has texted too many times, has begged Harry to respond too many times. The last text (which came in last night) simply said, _if u don’t come see me tomorrow I’m breaking into your place the next day._ Harry doesn’t really think he’s lying, but also isn’t certain Liam has it in him to break into anyone’s house. But Harry isn’t just anyone and Liam’s been waiting long enough, he supposes. No matter. Harry doesn’t care enough to dwell on it. He’ll be out of the house before Liam can get in.

Harry falls asleep a little while after he hears chatter downstairs.

* * *

 

Harry hasn’t woken up with a body next to his in a long time – so long now, he can’t remember the last time it happened. ~~Or maybe he can and just wants to fucking forget.~~ So when he blinks awake and feels someone in bed next to him, his heart almost beats out of his chest and he shoots straight up in his bed, neck twisting to see who it is. And there, arms folded on his lap and head leaned against the headboard of Harry’s bed, is Liam. Liam, whom Harry hasn’t seen since the funeral. Liam, who’s known Harry for years and who lost his boyfriend not a month ago. Liam, who lost his boyfriend because Harry was too much of a drunken arse to do anything to stop it. Liam, who fucking deserves better.

He looks exhausted, like someone took all the life in him and drained it out slowly. His usually warm skin is sickly pale, dark circles and heavy bags surrounding his eyes. His cheeks are hollow, bones jutting out in a way that’s painful for Harry to look at. He’s thinner, maybe, but Harry can’t tell because the covers are draped over most of his body, but his eyes – god, his eyes are vacant. Harry remembers just last month those eyes were so warm, so full of light and love. Now they’re blank, unfocused, like they’re a million miles away from here.

Harry wants to say something, wants to wrap Liam in his arms, wants to get down on his knees and apologize, wants to go back in time and change the last month of their lives. But he can’t. He can’t do a single one of those things. All that happens is this: his eyes well up with unwanted tears, blurring his vision at the edges; a lump forms in his throat and it hurts to swallow, to fucking breathe; a sob wracks through his spine, shaking him violently. Liam sits up, puts one arm around Harry’s shoulders, pulls him back into his body, and tightens both arms around Harry’s torso. Silent tears streak down Harry’s cheeks, leaving Liam’s shirt wet where they drop on it, and Liam doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t yell any accusations. He just keeps his arms around Harry’s and keeps him pressed against his chest.

 _This is wrong_ , a part of Harry spits at him, _he lost his favorite person because of you and what? He’s the one comforting you? How typically selfish._

And yet, and yet Harry can’t disentangle himself from Liam. He clings to Liam just as tightly as Liam holds him and Harry realizes with a jolt that, _holy shit_ , they haven’t had a chance to mourn their best friend together. It’s been more than three bloody weeks and they haven’t so much as sat together and had a proper cry. They saw each other at the hospital, hung onto each other when the doctor told them the news, stood next to each other at the funeral. But they haven’t been alone since Zayn died and the thought is so jarring, so fucking _painful_ , it leaves Harry heaving for breath.

And Liam, sweet precious Liam, presses one of Harry’s hands flat against his own chest and Harry can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s something Zayn used to do to help Harry whenever he panicked or had an asthma attack, and something about Liam remembering and doing it tugs at the jagged remains of Harry’s soul. He focuses on Liam’s heartbeat, tries to match his breath to it. _In and out, just listen to his heart_. And he does. He squeezes his eyes shut against Liam’s chest, breathing in the fresh scent of laundry detergent and counting along to each beat of Liam’s heart. He breathes steadily, eventually.

Liam still says nothing, asks nothing of Harry, and just holds Harry in his arms. But Harry knows why he’s here, why he’s been trying to reach Harry for weeks now. Harry knows, so he says, without any preamble, “It should have been me.”

“No,” Liam responds without hesitation, arms tightening around Harry. When Harry tries again that yes, it really should have been him, Liam doesn’t let him finish the sentence. _“No.”_

“You weren’t there,” Harry argues meekly. He doesn’t have a lot of fight left in him, if any. “You don’t – you didn’t see it. It should’ve been me.”

This time Liam whacks the back of Harry’s head, gently. “No. Not you, not him.”

Harry doesn’t argue with him. There’s no point to it, really. When Liam makes up his mind, it’s near impossible to change it. And right now, when he sounds moments away from falling apart, Harry doesn’t want to push it. He’s done enough already.

So they stay that way. The sun must be coming up, Harry thinks, when stray rays of light filter in the room through his window. Birds begin chirping outside, a quiet murmur at first, but slowly gaining momentum as more and more join in. Harry stays pressed against Liam, both of them utterly silent. It was never like this, Harry thinks, they never had long stretches of silence like this. They had moments when words weren’t necessary, when none of them had to say anything. But never once in Harry’s recollection have they been unable to speak honestly.

“Tell me what happened,” Liam says finally, quietly, cautiously. This time Harry’s the one who says _no_ with more finality in his voice than he has ever used on his friend. “Harry, please.”

Harry struggles out of Liam’s arms, sits up for a moment before leaving his bed altogether and shuffling to the window. He pulls the curtains back, letting the soft sunlight wash over himself and the rest of the room. The weather looks promising today, not a hint of a wispy cloud in the clear sky.   

“Just tell me how it happened, please,” Liam whispers behind Harry. He hasn’t moved from his position on the bed, hasn’t tried coming closer to Harry, and Harry’s grateful for it. “H, please, I just – I need to know. Please. Just once. Tell me.”

And Harry wishes he could. He wishes he could look Liam in the eye and admit what he did that night, come clean about why their friend is buried six feet under, but he can’t. He’s a fucking coward who isn’t brave enough, isn’t strong enough to face Liam and say out loud the things that happened that night. Because saying them out loud makes them more real than they already are, makes him truly responsible for the consequences, and Harry isn’t sure he can survive that.

He’s already hanging by a thread and hearing the events of that unfortunate night just might be the catalyst Liam needs to cut the thread. Harry wouldn’t blame him.

“The police know, Liam. Ask them. I can’t – I literally _can’t_ talk about it again. Please don’t make me.”

Liam says nothing. Harry wants to turn around, wants to apologize to Liam for being such a shit person and such a shit person, but he continues to look out the window. The street is mostly empty. He doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s early enough that the house is quiet downstairs.

“Do you know,” Liam says quietly at last, “that Louis’ in town?”

Harry’s heart drops to his stomach. He clutches the windowsill.

“I saw him,” Liam keeps talking, blissfully oblivious that Harry’s heart is failing him, that his vision has gone blurry and his legs are trembling. “I went to, um, I went to the cemetery today and caught him when he was leaving. Said he wanted to say goodbye to Zayn.” And if Liam’s voice falters when he admits to visiting the cemetery, or when he says _Zayn,_ then Harry isn’t going to bring it up. God knows he’s in no position to judge anyone.

“Said that to me, too,” Harry mutters just as quietly as Liam. His own voice shakes and wavers embarrassingly, but it’s Liam. Liam has seen far worse from Harry. Liam understands.

“You saw him?”

“I – “ He tries to speak, but his breath gets stuck in his throat. He wipes his hands at his wet face. Then everything just tumbles out of him, like some dam broke inside and everything flooded. “I fuckin’ hate him, Liam. I _hate_ him. I hate that I love him so much. _I_ _fucking hate him._ All this time later and he can still make my heart beat just for him. It’s not fair. It isn’t _fucking_ fair. He moved on, he built himself a new fucking life in a new fucking city and I’m still the pathetic little Harry wrapped around his tiny little finger. I just – he can’t – I can’t fucking deal with him now. Liam, I just, I _can’t_. He _left_. I can’t even _think_ about him without wanting to fucking die, without feeling my heart break all over again.” Harry can’t see. Everything is hazy and he thinks he’s on his knees now and it doesn’t matter. “He’s going to kill me. This time, when he leaves again, he’s going to kill me.”

Now Harry’s legs have definitely given out, he knows, because the carpet is digging into his bare knees and palms. He doesn't bother trying to get up, and he doesn't have to, because a moment later he’s encircled in two arms, Liam’s scent so very familiar to him, yet it does nothing to calm Harry. His face is wet, he knows, and breathing is a problem as fucking always. _It figures,_ Harry thinks bitterly, _Louis had always left him breathless, no reason for that to change now._ Except that there's every reason.

They’ve done thing before, Harry thinks dimly, in those early days and weeks when he realized Louis wasn’t coming back. He used to fall apart just like this, sometimes with Liam and sometimes with Zayn. Some night he cried himself to sleep in his mother’s lap. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all, his mind torturing him with memories of Louis Louis Louis.

 _Louis’ gone_ , he had to tell himself every day. _Louis’ gone, so, please, just stop fucking looking for him everywhere._

Liam’s whispered assurances do nothing, absolutely nothing, for Harry’s fractured breathing. “He ruined my life,” Harry hiccups, unable to help himself, “he ruined _me_.”

Even as the words tumble out of his mouth of their own volition, Harry knows he isn't being honest. Not that he’s lying, because Louis did, indeed, ruin his life, but he isn’t being entirely truthful, either. Because, you see, the thing is, Louis gave Harry the best things in life, too – only to snatch it all away. In fact, all he left Harry with are memories and regrets and broken promises of a future that was meant to last forever. A future that Harry’s life was going to be built around, a future Harry was already building his life around. So, yes, Louis ruined it. He ruined it all.

“If you see him,” Harry breathes, blinking back the new tears gathering in his eyes, “tell him to stay the fuck away from me.”

What he means is, _if he comes near me, if he looks at me even a tiny bit like he used to, I’ll let him string me along again. I’ll want to kiss him, I always want to kiss him, still to this day, and if he comes near me and I can’t kiss him it will kill me and he won’t even know so please keep him away from me._

“I’ll tell him to piss off,” Liam promises.

And Harry doesn’t know how it’s still possible, but Liam’s words still chip away at Harry’s battered and jagged heart. _Don’t,_ a piece of him wants to say, _please don’t let him leave. Please, please, convince him to stay._

But Harry has long since learned that Louis doesn’t care about what Harry wants.

 


	2. under the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> robin hurls insults and harry falls apart under the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit heavy in terms of content, nothing graphic, but a bit of biphobic behavior and some more of harry's guilt and suicidal ideation explored.
> 
> this chapter is dedicated to none other than mr. harry styles, for fucking me up with two ghosts. (the letters mentioned in this chapter can be found in the next part of this series)

It happens two days later.

When Liam and Harry went downstairs, Robin was gone and Anne had already fixed them breakfast. Harry didn’t ask how she knew Liam was there (because Liam used the spare key hidden in their backyard). They didn’t speak much; Harry’s mum asked Liam how he’s holding up and such, and that was that. Anne busied herself, leaving the boys to their own devices. Liam left soon after breakfast and Harry didn’t ask where Liam was going. It was too soon for him to act like their friendship isn’t fractured to some degree – even if they did spend the quiet hours of the morning holding each other.

After Liam left, Harry went back to his room and, just a short while later, his mother followed. She held a brown leather journal in her hand, but Harry didn’t recognize it. He scooted on his bed as she came to sit beside him.

“How’re are you feeling?” she asked. There was something cautious about her tone, more so than usual, that Harry found slightly unsettling.

“Tired,” he said, even though the day was just barely beginning.

Anne pushed his hair away from his forehead, letting her fingers linger. “Can we talk, honey?” Harry hates this question, hated how queasy it made him feel in that particular moment, but he hummed in agreement, nonetheless; what else was he meant to do?

His mother put the journal in his lap, folding his hands over it. “I know you still aren’t ready to talk about everything,” she said, voice gentle, “and that’s okay. It really is okay, sweetheart, there’s no rush. But I’d like you to be able to get your thoughts and feelings out somehow.” She paused; Harry let his fingers run across the cool leather. “I’m always willing to listen, you know that, but this is just for you. It helps me, sometimes, to write my worries down.”

“Thanks, Mum,” was all Harry could say.

Truth is, he didn’t, and still doesn’t, want to talk about his thoughts and feelings. He just wants them all to stop, one way or another, but he couldn’t say that to his mother.

“You know I love you, Harry,” Mum said. She tried to pull Harry to her chest, but her very pregnant belly made it a bit difficult. “You can always, always talk to me, baby. Please don’t do anything rash.”

Suddenly, it was impossible to swallow. Harry didn’t know what she meant by rash, what she knew or suspected, but he couldn’t ask her. Wouldn’t ask her. So he whispered the truth against her blouse, “I love you, too, Mum,” and didn’t acknowledge the other thing she said. She didn’t push it.

That night, Harry wrote three sentences in his journal.

_Mum wants me to write my thoughts & feelings._

_1) I think about dying and Louis a lot_

_2) I feel like Louis will be the death of me_

*

The next morning was a good one. Harry went with his mum to see her doctor for an ultrasound, just a regular checkup to make sure everything is alright. For the first time, Harry got to hear his baby sister’s tiny heartbeat, got to see her kicking about in her mummy’s belly.

“You loved to kick me,” his mum told him while he held her hand, “so much more than Gemma. This one will be like you, I reckon.”

 _Dear God, I hope not,_ Harry thought, but simply offered his mother a teary smile. He hadn’t seen her this happy, this bright in so long and his heart felt a bit lighter at sight of her pleased face.

*

So it happens two days later at dinner.

Harry helped Anne cook spaghetti, which is what they’re eating – Harry, Anne, and Robin  – when Robin mentions that he ran into Mr. Steer from work at the bakery this morning and wondered how Harry’s holding up now, what with losing his best mate.

“That wasn't all, though, no,” continues Robin, his face gradually turning scarlet, “he reminded me it's what happens at gay bars. That I ought to keep Harry away from that sort of scene.”

And if his words and angry tone wet anything to go by, Harry would assume Robin is angry with Mr. Steer for being so bigoted. That isn't the case, though, as Mr. Steer isn't the only bigot in town, and Harry expects it, but he still isn't ready when Robin’s cold eyes land on him.

“See what I have to put up with because of your choice in who you shag?”

“Haven't had a good shag in months,” is Harry’s cool reply, even though his blood is simmering.

His mum says something, maybe to him or maybe to Robin, Harry doesn't know and doesn't particularly care. Harry doesn't flinch when Robin spits at him, “Maybe if you stuck to girls you’d find someone.”

“Why limit myself when I can enjoy the best of both worlds?” Nevermind that Harry hasn't been able to enjoy anything since Louis left him. Robin doesn't need to know that.

But it’s as though he knows what Harry’s thinking, knows just the right place to strike that’ll leave Harry bleeding because his next words are, “And how’d that work out for ya?” with a nasty sneer twisting his mouth. When Harry doesn't fall for the bait, Robin’s fork hits the ceramic plate with a demeaning clack. “You've got to make up your mind, lad. There's a baby coming into this family and she needs good role models, not an indecisive pathetic excuse for an older brother.”

“Robin!” Harry’s never heard his mother quite so angry.

In, out. In, out. “Should've thought of that before you knocked up my mother.” This time Anne definitely chastises him. “My ‘indecisiveness’ isn't new, so perhaps Baby Sister shouldn't be coming into this ugly world. Perhaps we’re better off without each other.”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Robin sputters at the same time as Anne snaps, “Stop it, both of you!”

So Harry stops. He pushes back his chair from the dining table and stands up, legs slightly trembling. “‘M not gonna make you pick sides, Mum. You love him, and he's a lucky bastard for that. If he's truly lucky, maybe I’ll get hit by a bus tonight or die outside a gay bar like me best mate.” Despite his words, or maybe in spite of them, Harry truly hopes he stays alive long enough to face Robin at least once more after tonight, and the thought surprises him. He isn't the vindictive type, but he feels unhinged, somehow, like Robin’s hateful words left his every nerve raw and exposed.

“Har  – ”

“Mum, please, don't bother.” Harry walks around the table and presses a kiss to her forehead. He wipes her cheeks with his thumb, crouches down on his knees and meets his mother’s watery eyes. “I love you,” he presses a hand to her belly, “and you. Stay safe, little one.”

Without another word to Robin, Harry races up to his room. His childhood room, he corrects himself; it’ll probably become a guest room in a few years. He mindlessly shoves clothes into a duffel bag – shirts, pants, jeans, socks – as well as some other essentials and his new journal. Then, heart hammering, he’s out on the street and realizes for the first time he doesn't know where, exactly, he should go.

A month ago, he could've wandered into three different homes and he would've been welcomed with open arms. But that was a month ago. A month ago, Zayn wasn't dead and Louis wasn't in town. A month ago, Harry wasn't suicidal – not actively, at least. So he heads to the one place he thinks might help clear his mind.

He didn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, so he is entirely to blame for the shivers that run down his spine in the breeze. It's only when he reaches the main road that Harry realizes it's not bloody midnight – which means there's cars passing each other by on the motorway and he won't get the peace and quiet he longed for, not for another handful of hours.

For the first time in more than three weeks, Harry texts Liam, _where are you?_

He sits right there on the cobblestone walkway of a house as he waits for his friend to reply. He isn't even sure if Liam will respond; after all, Harry did ignore him for the better part of a month, and then again two days ago. Liam isn't the kind to hold a grudge for long, never has been, but maybe that’s changed. Maybe losing Zayn changed Liam for the worse, too, just like it did Harry.

But just then his screen lights up with, back home.

 _Home, home?_ When Liam says yes, Harry asks, _can i come?_ Again, Liam says yes.

The thirty minute walk from the house to Harry and Liam’s ~~and Zayn’s~~  flat feels like it lasts thirty hours. Harry hasn't been to the flat since the night Zayn died. He went right to the hospital when the paramedics finally arrived, and then Anne brought him home afterwards. There were police offices and news people from local channels who wanted Harry’s statement, but as soon as he said his piece and refused to speak more – there are surveillance cameras for a reason – Harry was brought home to the comfort of his mother’s home.

When the building comes into view and Harry peers up into the open window, he can clearly make out the edge of the painting Zayn picked to hang above the sofa: a fruit bowl.

“It’s classy and sophisticated,” he’d said, “everything we’re not.”

Mustering up a bit of resolve, Harry closes the short distance between himself and the building, climbing up the sixteen stairs with unsteady legs. The interior of the building in darker than the outside, since none of the lights are lit yet, and it is muscle memory that takes Harry up to their flat. There’s three other ones in this building, one of them facing Harry’s own, and he hangs against the wall between the two flats for a minute. Just – he needs a minute, just to prepare himself. After a moment, or an hour, Harry pushes the key into the lock and twists to the right and hears the distinct _click_ of it unlocking. Without giving himself more time to chicken out, he opens the door and takes a step inside.

The sight that greets him in one he’s seen countless times, yet something about it today tugs at his heartstrings. Liam is curled on the sofa, a striped blanket thrown over him; he isn’t awake, and Harry’s thankful for that. He really doesn’t know if he can talk about anything at the moment, if he can entertain any questions.

As quietly as possible, he shuts the door behind him and makes his way to the smaller bedroom of the two – his bedroom, as Liam and Zayn shared the bigger one. He doesn’t look to the left in the small hallway, doesn’t let his eyes fall on the other bedroom, and pushes open the door to his own. His bed, which is really just a mattress, in unmade, almost hidden by the plush white duvet. There’s a small white vanity that his mum helped pick out and a small white desk that Harry chose. And that’s the extent of furniture in Harry’s room. He lets his duffle drop to the floor next to the vanity and kicks off his boots before crawling under the duvet and curling in on himself.

And then the tears start.

Harry isn’t sure how his tear ducts haven’t run dry by now, since all he does these days is fucking cry, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Now that he’s truly alone, almost, his stepfather’s words find their way to his heart and lodge themselves in his veins, turning his blood cold. He’s heard them all before, _fuck,_ he has. He’s heard them all, from Robin and from other people. He’s heard them at school and at uni, he’s read them online. They aren’t new, and neither is the sting that reverberates through his heart and soul. What’s new is that Robin used Zayn’s death tonight, used it in his accusations and hurled it at Harry like it really, truly was his fault.

 _It wasn’t,_ he tells himself. ~~Yes, it fucking was.~~

 Loneliness crawls up his spine and under his very skin and Harry feels sick. He remembers the ugly words he said about his sister, about not wanting her to be born, and he feels _dirty._ He wishes he could take them back, wishes he could hide himself away in his mother’s safe arms and apologize and be better. But he can’t, he fucking can’t, because his mother is back at her house and Harry’s here – alone – in a flat that used to be home. He isn’t really alone, he knows, Liam is just in the other room, but Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more alone than he does in this moment.

So he gets up. He gets up from the mattress, pulls a jumper over his head because the place is bloody freezing, and shuffles out to the living room where Liam is. Harry folds himself on the other end of the sofa from Liam without waking him up and regards the bowl of cubed fruit that rests on the small coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t need to wake his friend to know where it’s from. He can see imperfectly cut apples, bananas, pineapples, kiwis, as well as some blueberries and strawberries.

Zayn’s mum made it.

Harry remembers when he learned how to make it. He was over at Zayn’s house one evening during Ramadan a few years back and Trisha was preparing dinner for everyone. She’d already cut most of the fruits when Harry came into the kitchen and asked if she needed help. She didn’t, she said, but Harry lingered to watch her put together the fruits and asked her how she made it.

“Zayn doesn’t care about how it’s made as long as it makes its way onto the dinner table,” she’d laughed and showed Harry the fruits that she liked putting in. And then she added so much sugar to the mix Harry thought his teeth would fall out right then and there. It did help a little when she added a bit of salt and sprinkled the bowl with pepper, but Harry couldn’t shake the thought of so much sugar being added to a bowl of _fruit._

Taking a spoonful now, Harry remembers the first time he made it himself. It was back at the house, before Harry had moved into this flat. Harry had finished cutting his apples and pears and bananas and was working on cutting cherries into fours when Louis walked in. It was midafternoon, Harry didn’t know Louis would be coming – not that it was a surprise; Harry’s house was Louis’ second home, and vice versa. So that was how Louis found Harry: standing in the kitchen with a knife in one hand, fingers stained crimson with cherry juice.

“What the fuck, babe?” were the words that made Harry jump a little. Without waiting for an explanation, Louis was in Harry’s personal space, tugging the knife out of his hand and throwing it in the sink.

“’S just cherries, Lou,” Harry said, trying to pull his hands back so as not to ruin Louis’ white shirt. Cherry stains are impossible to remove, Harry knew.

“What’re you cutting _cherries_ for?” Louis asked incredulously, not letting go of Harry’s hands, turning them this way and that, as though he really expected them to be bleeding.

“’M making a fruit salad, like Trisha,” Harry told Louis. He pushed Louis back with his elbows so he could step to the sink and wash his hands. “Just didn’t realize how bloody tedious it would be to cut these things.” He pulled Louis closer and brought both their hands under the spray to rinse Louis’. Then he tipped Louis’ chin up and pressed a kiss to his pouty lips. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

“Am not,” was Louis’ mumbled response as he stepped onto Harry’s feet and pushed up on his toes to kiss him harder.

They had many kisses in that kitchen, Harry remembers with a pang in his heart – by the stove, on the counter, at the threshold under a mistletoe. _What went wrong?_ he wonders again for the thousandth time, _why did you leave what did I do wrong what happened?_ But Louis isn’t here to answer any of his questions.

Harry doesn’t know when Liam wakes up, or how long he watches Harry, but when something nudges his ankle, Harry startles and finds Liam looking at him with a small, hesitant smile on his lips. “You’re home,” he says, and if sounds like a more like a question, then Harry can’t blame him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just – I had to get away from there.” There’s no point in lying, is there? It isn’t like Robin’s beliefs are a secret to Liam. Unfortunately, Liam has been on the receiving end of Robin’s judgment before, so he knows what it’s like, how nauseating it feels. Liam watches Harry, watches him curled in on himself, watches him pick at his cuticles. Then Liam sits up and crawls over just a little so his head rests against Harry’s hip, fingers picking at the rip in Harry’s jeans. The blanket slipped when Liam moved, so Harry can see he’s wearing an orange T-shirt – one that most definitely doesn’t belong to him and has not been washed, either, judging by the stain on the shoulder.

Liam catches him staring, and says quietly, “It still smells like him,” and god, _god,_ Harry knows what that feels like. Knows what it’s like to cling to someone who isn’t coming back. Difference is, when he cried himself to sleep wearing Louis’ shirts, Louis wasn’t fucking dead. Zayn is. _You don’t know what it's fucking like,_ a voice bites at him, _your boyfriend just left your pathetic ass, his is fucking dead because of you._

Liam continues picking at the fraying rip in Harry’s jeans and Harry continues picking at the fruit salad, Louis’ ghost still haunting his mouth years later.

*

Harry makes a late dinner for the both of them. It’s just boiling pasta and setting the table, but it’s an accomplishment. He hasn't prepared dinner by himself since before Zayn died, so just making pasta feels like a win. It isn't really, he knows, but there's a proud glimmer in Liam’s eyes and he compliments the food, so, really, Harry isn't in a place to bitch about it. When they're finished, instead of going to his bedroom, Liam gets comfortable on the sofa again, a small cushion tucked in his arms – like he would hold Zayn, Harry remembers with a twist of his heart.

It isn't surprising that neither of them fall asleep. Harry’s sleep has been fitful for ages now, and it's only gotten worse after Zayn. Liam, Harry guesses, can't sleep for the same reason. He waits for Liam to finally doze off and it’s well past one in the morning when he quietly slips out of the flat.

He should have thought to grab his bike this evening, but he wasn't thinking properly – wasn't thinking at all, really – so now he's walking back to the house for it. He’ll go to the bakery tomorrow, ask for his job back. It’s still his, he knows, but he still needs to go back and talk to Maurice, let her know he's ready to work again. He isn't, if he's being honest with himself, but he can't keep himself shut away at the flat, not when his mind is always running in circles of Zayn and Louis. He needs something else to occupy it, something else to keep it busy and distracted. Baking cupcakes and serving customers should do be enough, for now.

When Harry reaches the house, it’s a bit dreary once again, or maybe it's his subconscious projecting. Either way, Harry doesn't linger long. He unlocks his bike from the backyard and pedals away, stopping only when he reaches the bridge. The beauty of this place is that when the day is dying, there isn't a soul out and about. It's always deserted, much like tonight. Even Allie Cat isn't around to keep company.

Harry leans the bike against the railing and drops to the ground, bum scraping against the concrete as he scoots forward to let his legs dangle off the edge. It isn't windy tonight, or rainy like the last time; there's just a gentle breeze, almost like a whisper, kissing against Harry’s face and whistling through his hair. Harry wraps both hands around the metal bars on either side of him, resting his forehead against the railing and closing his eyes. He could fall asleep here, he thinks, as the cool metal of the railing soothes his erratic mind. Above him, the moon shines full, casting an otherworldly glow on everything. Harry peeks up from underneath his eyelashes and lets his gaze roam the dead sky, finding exactly seven stars breaking through the void and flickering in the darkness. He wonders if the moon would gleam as bright if all the stars were free to glitter, too, and decides that no, it wouldn't. You can be the moon and still be envious of the stars, Harry thinks. The moon is a creation of imperfections, marred by blemishes and craters, but the stars – the stars are violently beautiful in their gently chaotic nature.

The quiet rumble of an engine disrupts Harry’s musings and he lifts his head just long enough to see headlights glaring in the distance, steadily coming closer. People don’t usually drive out here at nearly two a.m., certainly not people Harry knows, so he leans forward again and closes his eyes, plugging his earbuds in and turning the volume dangerously high to hum along with Stevie Nicks. It’s strange, he thinks, that peaceful sleep seems possible here at the edge of the world, of all place, with half his body dangling off the edge. He hasn’t slept properly in so long, hasn’t spent a night free of nightmares in what seems like years. It probably has been. He has nice dreams, sometimes – in those dreams, he’s with Louis and nothing has changed; Louis touches him and kisses him like he’s still the most precious person in the world. Of course, when he wakes up and remembers that Louis has long since forgotten him, his waking hours become a nightmare and Harry always starts back at square one.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere. His eyes are still closed and music is still filtering his ears, but Harry can feel someone next him now. Panic rising in chest, Harry looks over his shoulder and – _oh._ Oh, _fuck._ Not here, not now, Harry was just starting to breathe easy, fuck, this isn't _fair_ to him. He can’t – can’t fucking blink, can’t get a single fucking breath in, can’t get his heart to carry a steady rhythm, oh _god,_ this isn’t fucking happening to him. Louis is not sitting two feet away from Harry, he is not leaning back on his elbows, he is _not_ looking at Harry like nothing has changed between them because, _fuck,_ everything has changed. This is not happening.

With a tug of his fingers, Louis pulls out one earbud.

“Hi.” It’s just one word, just one small syllable Harry hears countless times a day, and it still fucking tears through Harry like a spear, leaves him trembling. He can’t remember how to breathe. He tries to focus on his heartbeat, tries to wrap his fingers around his left wrist and find his pulse, but all he can think is _Louis Louis Louis_ and Louis is looking at him with a small tug of his lips and, _fuck,_ Harry can’t remember.

“Breathe, love.” His voice is gentle, just like it used to be, but the endearment cuts Harry in half, stings like salt on his freshly opened wounds, and when Louis lifts a hand like he’s about to reach out, Harry’s vision goes blurry.

“Don’t touch me,” he grinds out, tries to blink back the tears but they slip down his cheeks instead, “You don’t get to fucking touch me.”

“I know,” is Louis’ resigned response. No fight in him, so unlike the Louis who loved Harry.

He’s still staring at Harry with those blue eyes that hold all the stars in them, his hand still halfway in between them, and Harry can’t fucking _stand_ it, so he looks away. Presses his cheek against the railing and turns his face away from Louis, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at anything, ~~doesn’t have to look at Louis,~~ when he asks, “What are you doing here?” because hell would freeze over before Harry believes they’ve run into each other by happenstance.

“Making sure you’re still alive,” Louis responds. Any progress Harry made on calming his breathing goes to shit again because Louis knows. What, exactly, he knows, Harry isn’t sure, but he knows something. He sounds just like he used to whenever he had the upper hand, whenever he knew something others didn’t, and, _god,_ Harry doesn’t want to imagine what he knows now.

“You leaving didn’t kill me,” he lies, “so why would I be dying now?” He pays attention to his pulse, wills it to slow down just a little bit, even if it is beating to the rhythm of a name that Harry has no claim over, not anymore. Louis doesn’t need to know.

Louis’ quiet for so long Harry wonders if he even spoke out loud, wonders if Louis just doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t dare look into those eyes again. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll hold on to the little bit of anger left in him, he won’t let Louis back in. Because otherwise – otherwise, he’s going to get his fucking heart broken again. He’s barely been able to mend it from the last time, and this time he doesn’t have his mate around to put him back together.

~~But he wants it. _God,_ he wants to just trace Louis’ face one more time, run his finger along those cheekbones and feels those lips underneath his. He’s itching to move his hand, to let it wander a few inches and touch Louis’. Wants to know if it still feels the same, if it still feels like home. Harry can’t breathe he can’t fucking breathe oh fuck fuck _fuck_ – ~~

“I heard you, the other day in the cemetery,” Louis voice cuts through the air, and Harry clings to it like it’s an anchor and he’s drowning drowning drowning, “You said you –” He sounds pained, and Harry takes some childish comfort in it, despite the knife Louis’ words are twisting in his chest. “You said you almost jumped, that you’d come again. I just – I’ve been coming here every night, making sure that you don’t.”

And Harry wants to scream, wants to tell Louis to fuck off and that it’s none of his bloody business anymore, that he killed Harry when he left without a word, but all Harry can do is have for breath. He can’t – Louis isn’t supposed to fucking know this, he has no right to know anything about Harry anymore. “Fuck you,” he whispers into the darkness. Then he turns back to Louis, god, he needs to look at that face, needs to know how Louis feels. “Do you know,” Harry says, ignoring the quiver in his voice and opting to focus on the crease that forms between Louis’ brows, “how many times I came here when I realized you wouldn’t be coming back to me?” It’s dark, so Harry can’t read the expression in Louis’ eyes, but he sees something crack in the calm demeanor. Good. “Every time, every _fucking_ time, Zayn held on tight and pulled me back from the edge, and now he’s gone, so who the hell am I supposed to hold on to?”

“I’m sorry about Z,” Louis whispers back.

“Don’t fucking call him that,” Harry snaps, and some part of him flinches at his own tone. He has never in his entire life spoken to Louis this way. It hurts. It fucking hurts when all he wants to do is gather the boy in his arms and never let go, but that’s not even an option and Louis made sure of it. “Why are you really here? My wellbeing isn’t exactly your top priority, is it?”

“It is,” and damn him, he sounds earnest, “I heard what you said in the cemetery and I couldn’t just – I couldn’t exactly sleep on it, could I?” There’s a breathless laugh, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck – his nervous tick. Harry hates that it’s still so intimately familiar. “I saw Anne when I got back, she was still with Mum, so I just, like, it spilled out. I told her.”

The journal. Fuck, of course, his mum knows. Of course. He wants to tell Louis to bugger off, but what comes out is, “You saw Mum?”

“Yeah.” This time, this time there’s a real laugh from Louis, even if it does sound slightly rueful. “She gave me an earful, I promise. Proper yelled at me for half an hour ‘till I was ready to cry before she listened to a word I had to say.”

Harry can imagine, can see his mother giving Louis a stern talking to for walking out on Harry without a word. He can see Zayn doing the same, if he were alive – though Zayn might have socked Louis in the face first before using his words. God, _god,_ will it ever get easier? Will he ever be able to think of Zayn without feeling the splinters in his heart? He can feel his resolve slipping, can feel his guards lower, can feel his common sense get up and leave, so he gets to his feet. He needs to leave, he needs to walk away right now before he does something stupid, before he shatters his own heart.

 _~~Hold me hold me hold me hold me please please hold me~~ _ ~~~~

“Thanks for listening to my mother and talking to her when you couldn’t spare the effort for me,” he’s able to throw over his shoulder before he’s reaching for his bike.

Louis’s stood up, too, now. “Harry, I can explain –”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s the first time Harry’s heard his name fall from Louis’ mouth and his knees almost buckle at the sound.

“Should have explained about two years ago.”

“Babe –”

 _“No!”_ It’s the first time Harry’s yelled at Louis in his entire life. “Stop calling me things like that! Just stop! You don’t get to do that! You left! You just – you fucking walked out on me! Stopped talking to me without an inkling on an explanation and I was sitting at home writing you letters!” He shouldn’t be admitting this, he _knows_ it’s only going to hurt him more, but he can’t stop, can’t help himself. Louis’s finally here, he’s here and Harry doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance, so he has to get it out. “The first one started with, _Hey, love,_ and ended with, _please come home to me,_ and then I sealed the envelope and realized I don’t fucking know where you live! So like some lovesick fool, I started writing to you about my day or week or month, as if you’d ever be interested.”

“Harry –”

“Shut up! _Shut up,_ you don’t get to fucking talk, you just get to listen, Louis, because I have wanted to talk for more than a fucking year.”

Somehow, while Harry was yelling, Louis must have stepped closer because suddenly there isn’t much space left between them and if Harry squints hard enough he can make out the small scar on Louis’ cheekbone. He balls his hands into fists, letting his nails dig into his palm so he can feel the pain, can remember what would happen if he lets himself go. But in that moment, Harry’s eyes flicker to Louis’ and a sob breaks out of him.

“There’s so much,” he starts, and then has to fight the painful lump in his throat, “so much that I want to say. It’s all there, it’s all been here for so long, but right now, I’m looking at you, and, god, Lou, all I want to do is touch you.” Hot, heavy tears fall from his eyes and Harry – Harry doesn’t care. Hiding his feelings from Louis was never something he did, never something he _could_ do, and, fuck, tonight’s nothing different. “It’s _pathetic,_ I know, because I’m so fucking angry with you, I’m furious, but my best friend died three weeks ago because of me and my stepfather thinks I’m a big fucking disappointment and shouldn’t be around the baby, and now – now you’re here and I –” he has to hold on to the railing with both hands, “I want to die every single day, but more than anything, I want to touch you and I want to kiss you because, goddamnit, Lou, I’ve _missed_ you. I know you haven’t missed me, that’s fine, but, god, _god,_ I’ve missed you every day you were gone.”

Harry isn’t breathing he isn’t – and then Louis’ arms are wound tightly around his torso and _oh,_ oh, this feels like coming home, Harry thinks, and maybe he hears the night sigh quietly around them. Louis smells like lemons and what Harry imagines sunshine to smell like and _home_ , even if home is a broken place Harry hasn’t visited in so long, but right now – right now, in this moment, it doesn’t seem to matter, because home has always been blue eyes and a heartbeat. He’s breaking, falling apart piece by piece, but he hasn’t felt this whole in ages, and he finds himself whispering into Louis’ shoulder, “Please kiss me,” and when Louis doesn’t answer, doesn’t so much as moves an inch, Harry begs, “Please, just, be my Louis one more time and kiss me, I won’t – I won’t ask you after tonight, just, please, Lou. Just this once.”

And still, Louis doesn’t move. He just holds Harry tighter, pulls him in closer and Harry thinks he could die here, could forgive and forget all the crimes Louis has committed against him. Louis’ cheek is pressed against Harry’s chest and Harry thinks, just for a moment, that maybe Louis’ listening to Harry’s life thrum beneath his chest, just like he used to. Before, when things were okay, when Louis was still Harry’s, there was a night like so many others when Harry was curled in Louis’ arms, head on Louis’ chest. Louis’ fingers were in Harry’s hair and Harry’s thoughts were on Louis’ heartbeat.

“What do you hear?” Louis asked him that night.

And Harry was slow to answer, choosing his words carefully, honestly. “Your heart. It’s… steady, but it kind of – it, like, goes faster sometimes, when I press my fingers into your skin.”

Harry felt Louis smile against his forehead, felt lips press against his skin in the lightest of kisses. “Can you hear it saying your name?” Louis said quietly, “because I can feel it. With every beat, I can feel it spelling out your name.” He tipped Harry’s face up, eyes shining when he whispered, “Always in my heart, sweets.”

 

Harry pulls back, just enough to brush his fingers against Louis’ cheekbones, to frame Louis’ face in his hands and he thinks, _maybe it’s possible to capture moonlight._ The imperfections he noticed earlier in the moon – they don’t seem so terrible now. ~~He’s still so stupidly in love.~~

“Lou,” he breathes, and it’s just merely a whisper, gets swept away in the breeze, and he hopes it never gets lost, never stops floating through the atmosphere. It kills him, because he’s missed this so much, has craved this for so long, when he lets their noses brush each other, breathes in same air Louis breathes out, lets his thumb run across the small cluster of freckles on Louis’ cheek. “Just once, Lou.”

“Harry,” and Louis doesn’t sound better than Harry, doesn't sound any more composed, “Harry, love, you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown.” His arms are still around Harry, fingers gentle. “You’ll hate me in the morning if I kiss you now.”

And Harry thinks, _he’s never denied me a kiss before,_ and it _hurts._ It hurts in a way Harry couldn’t have imagined. “I’ve hated you for a while now,” he confesses, and despite his better judgment, lets his lips press against the crown of Louis’ head. He’s going to regret this when he’s alone in his bed, but right now he smells Louis and right now he can feel Louis and Harry has always been selfish.

But then something happens.

Louis reaches up to tug on a loose curl of Harry’s, a devastatingly sad smile turning up the corners of his mouth before he brushes a kiss against Harry’s jaw, his words nothing more than a trembling breath when he whispers, “I’ve missed you, as well, m’love. Every day.”

And Harry isn’t inclined to believe the words, but they still cleave his heart right down the middle. Weak – he has always been so _weak_ when it comes to Louis. There were moments when Louis made him strong, made him feel invincible, but mostly Louis just made Harry weak in the knees, made his heart weak until it fucking melted just at the thought of Louis’s eyes or the sound of his voice. His heart fucking beat for Louis, each thump following the rhythm of _Louis Tomlinson._ So, really, when Harry wonders out loud, “But you won’t kiss me,” it isn’t surprising, because no matter how much Louis hurt Harry, there’s still only one person in the world who can mend and break Harry.

“No, love,” Louis says, finger still wrapped around Harry's hair, and he’s calling Harry _love,_ so it’s strange that the sound grates against his skin and leaves him bleeding. Harry always did wear his heart on his sleeve, especially for Louis. And, he thinks, that for tonight, that is torture enough.

“‘Night, Lou.” Disentangling himself is a colossal effort, and the loss of body heat almost brings Harry to his knees. But at least he’ll fall asleep with Louis’ scent still lingering in his nose and Harry suddenly can’t wait to get home at the prospect.

“Let me drive you back,” Louis tugs on Harry’s sleeve, “please.”

And Harry should say no, should tell Louis it isn’t his place, but he’s still running high from the ghost of Louis’s skin on his, and he finds himself agreeing. He doesn’t know what ungodly hour it is that brought them together, what keeps shoving them together no matter how hard Harry tries to stay away now, but Harry has never been a believer in god.

Harry’s bike is shoved in the back of the car and Harry has half a mind to sit back there, too, however tight the space might be, but then Louis’ opening the passenger side door and Harry’s climbing in and telling Louis his address. It begins to rain thirty seconds into the drive, but Louis doesn’t roll the windows up. He remembers how grumpy Louis gets when it’s cold and the car windows are rolled down, but Harry used to love driving with the windows down, used to love the wind in his hair.

Soft patter of raindrops against the windshield fills the car and masks the silence surrounding them. Quiet moments between them always used to be comfortable, Harry recalls – treasured, even. The tangible silence around them now, though, is anything but comfortable and Harry won’t be the one to break it. With the breeze whistling through his hair and the scent of rain invading his senses, Harry mind feels a bit clearer; he remembers now just how truly _stupid_ it is to open up to Louis like this, like Louis didn’t break Harry into a million fucking piece and never once looked over his shoulder to survey the damage.

Then Louis cracks.

“Mum asked about you,” he says in the dead of the night – or perhaps it’s dawn now, Harry isn’t sure. “Wanted to know if I’d spoken to you.”

And, no, Harry isn’t going to fall for the bait. He has known Louis his entire life, knows every single trick Louis has up his sleeve, so, _no,_ Harry is not going to fall victim to his trap. “How is she?” Harry asks instead, knowing they only have another couple more minutes of driving left at most.

“Not well,” Louis admits, and for the first time tonight, he sounds… dejected. He sounds like a kid who know he’s going to lose his mum and he’s barely holding himself together by the seams. Harry almost caves, almost turns and pulls Louis into his lap, almost holds him tight and lulls him to sleep, but he doesn’t. He can’t. “We saw her oncologist again today and they’re starting her on chemo, which might help, but they said they can’t promise anything. That it’s like, a one in a million shot, and she might get better, but she might also not –” Louis _breaks._ Harry can hear it in the way his voice falters when he says _might also not_ , and, oh, Harry wishes the circumstances were different so he could comfort his boy the way he wants to, could take away some of the pain and soothe his worries.

The car stops in front of the apartment complex and Louis finishes, “She might not be here in two months.”

If Harry could, he would turn the world upside down and flip it sideways to make all this go away because it isn’t _fair._ It isn’t fair that Louis has to live with this – this fear that he might not have a mum in two months, that he might be taking care of six siblings all on his own.

“She misses you,” Louis whispers over the rain, effectively ruining what’s left of Harry’s battered heart, “she’d like it, you know, if you visit.”

“I will.”

And it isn’t a lie. Harry will, he knows he will. Maybe he’ll go tomorrow, or in a few days. With a slight tug at his heartstrings, Harry is reminded of his primary school teacher, Miss Margerie, and what she used to say about tomorrow. It started with a small presentation that self-conscious little eight years old Harry didn’t want to do, so whenever she called on him, he would tell her he’d do it tomorrow, promise. And, one day, when only two other students were left and Harry told her he’d be ready tomorrow, promise, she said, “Tomorrow never comes, Harry.” An entire decade later, those words still rings in his ears from time to time. He always did like Miss Margerie.

Louis’ voice pulls Harry back to reality when he continues, “I’m sorry. I know I’m pathetically late, I know I should have been here weeks ago, when Zayn died, and I should have – I should’ve been here for you, and I’m so, so sorry that I wasn’t, H, I’m so sorry. But I’m here now, love, and I’ll –”

“You’re not, though,” Harry interrupts him, rather harshly, even though he doesn’t try to be. “Here, I mean. You’re not here. You came back because your mum is sick, not because I need you. There’s a difference.”

And it’s not that Harry’s upset about Louis being here for his mother; he has no right to be, as he would ruin the world for his own mother if he had to. But Louis’ acting as though he’s here for Harry, as though they’re old pals catching up after a summer, and it’s twists like a rusted knife in Harry’s heart.

“I’m here with you, right now,” Louis reminds him, “at arse o’clock in the morning, taking you home.”

“No one bloody fucking asked you to do that!” It’s the second time Harry has yelled at Louis in his entire life. Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, Harry tries to remember that this is Louis, that he doesn’t shout at Louis, that he doesn’t _want_ to shout at Louis, ever.

~~He just wants to hold Louis and be held.~~

He opts for a “goodnight, Louis,” instead, and gets out of the car before Louis can say anything else. He has the wrestle with the back door a bit, has to wait until Louis get out, as well, and opens it from the other side, abashedly mumbling something about only side being functional. He pulls out Harry’s bicycle, hands it over without much chit chat, and Harry doesn’t dare lift his gaze to Louis’, doesn’t trust himself to stay strong.

 _Goodnight, starry eyes,_ he thinks as he walks through the rain and towards his building, ~~_I’ll see you soon._~~

Tomorrow, Harry will get this life together. Tomorrow, things will be better. 


	3. across the cosmos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis promised harry the entire universe, once upon a time. liam shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloo, sorry i'm a few days late! just got stuck on this chapter and i'm not entire happy with it since it's not the most exciting, but it gives a bit more a glimpse into hl's relationship Before, and shows a bit more of liam. no major warnings for this one, so i'll stop talking now!

Tomorrow, of course, never comes.

The day after baring his heart open to Louis again, Harry doesn’t step a foot outside the flat. He eats a breakfast, which should probably be considered a lunch, even though he hardly slept at all and stared at the plastic stars stuck to his ceiling all night long until he dozed off after the sun came up. When he finally dragged his arse up from his mattress and out of his room, Liam had already set a plate of toast and eggs for him, as well as half a glass of orange juice. Stuck on the glass was a note that read, _went to see Trisha, see you for dinner? – L._ And Harry knows it’s pathetic, knows it’s laughable, but the _L_ rips his chest wide open because that’s how Louis used to sign his notes – only he also used to add two _xx_ ’s for Harry.

There’s a sticky note signed by both Harry and Louis that’s taped to the inside of Harry’s closet right now.

Three years ago, when things were okay, when Louis was still Harry’s, there was an evening like so many others when Harry was sitting between Louis’ legs, head leaned against Louis’ chest. They were in Harry’s basement, sitting on the floor and paying half a mind to the film playing on the telly, both of them more enchanted by each other, by the words and promises they shared on the carpeted floor.

“I think we should do it outside,” Harry fiddled absently with the sleeve of Louis’ shirt, “like, maybe near a farmhouse or something, so we can spend the night there. And the ceremony can be outside, during autumn.”

Louis’ other hand scratched at Harry’s scalp, lips grazing the soft skin of Harry’s neck. “And who do you think will let us have a wedding at their farmhouse? Which one of your rich relatives are you hiding from me?”

The giggle that bubbled out of Harry was quiet, gentle, like it didn’t want to disrupt the serenity that surrounded them.  “If Mum’s wedding planning skills aren’t put to use for _us,_ then what’s the point of them?” He turned his head just a little, allowed Louis to trail small kisses to the corner of his mouth. “We can have tulips – red ones – and white calla lilies. Of course, like, we’d need other flowers, too, but I haven’t looked into many others, yet.” Louis’ arm tightened around Harry’s torso for just a moment as he hummed a request for an explanation. Harry felt his cheeks burn. “Red tulips mean true love and, uh, I’m pretty sure that white lilies mean purity and innocence.”

“You’re a sap, Harry Styles, right down to your core,” Louis pressed into his skin.

And it’s not that Harry was embarrassed, no, not at all. He might have been only seventeen years old, but there was not a shadow of a doubt in his heart about what – who – he wanted. Some may have called it infatuation, but they would never understand the feeling of being _home_ that Louis brought Harry. The way he made Harry’s heart stutter with one tantalizing glance and the way he calmed it down with a single comforting touch. They would never understand how _safe_ Louis made Harry feel, how important and how cherished Louis made Harry feel. They would never understand that their relationship consisted of more than stolen kisses and boisterous laughter; it was Louis earnestly listening to Harry talk about the things he loved, it was Louis paying attention to the most minute of Harry’s likes and dislikes, it was Louis making a conscious effort to learn Harry inside and out.

It was Harry looking at Louis and thinking, _I’m home._

“Can I be a bit more of a sap?” he asked, and it wasn’t much of a question as it was a statement. When Louis nodded, Harry struggled to pull them both to their feet at the same time. They tripped and stumbled over Harry’s feet all the way up to his room, where Harry locked the door, told Louis to sit on the bed, and then darted to his desk covered with coursework. He found a blue pen, a pad of pink sticky notes, and sat across from Louis, smile so wide Harry thought his face might crack in half. “What do you wanna promise me?”

“The whole world,” was Louis’ easy response, “I wanna promise you the sun and the moon and the stars and everything in between in the entire cosmos.”

“What about something a bit more realistic?” _God,_ Louis was everything. _Everything._

“I’ll choose you, always,” Louis promised, eyes infinitely softer, fingers just a whisper on Harry’s cheek, “whatever happens, whenever it happens, I’ll always choose you.” He tugged Harry forward, molding their lips together in an innocent kiss.

When Harry pulled away, he wrote their vow on the small paper, his script incredibly tiny to fit all the words. _I, Harry Styles, promise to choose you, Louis Tomlinson, above everything else, always._ With each word written, his smile got a little bigger and his heart swelled a little more. He handed the pen and the small pad to Louis, who wrote, _I, Louis Tomlinson, promise to choose you, Harry Styles, above everything else, always and forever._ With bright eyes that would put the moon to shame and make all the stars feel inadequate, they signed the small pink paper with, _H & L. _ And then, just because they were in love and just because they could, they scribbled their vow on another sticky so they could both have one.

Three years later, Harry has the small pink piece of paper, but he doesn't have his blue eyed boy.

His appetite gone, Harry crumples Liam’s note and throws it in the bin before pouring the orange juice down the sink and locking himself in his room.

He wonders how anyone can explain the physical ache he feels in his chest when all he wants to do is be with Louis, because it shouldn’t – it shouldn’t _hurt_ to miss someone like this. It shouldn’t leave him _empty._ And it isn’t the kind of empty that makes him feel like he’s floating on clouds; no, it’s the kind of empty that’s heavy, that makes him feel like he’s suffocating. It makes him feel caged, makes him feel like a prisoner in his own mind and body. It makes his breath come in shallow pants, makes his palms clammy and makes his eyes prick with tears. _What did I do wrong?_ he silently screams again at nothing and no one in particular, _just tell me what I did wrong, why did he leave?_ Because the Louis that Harry remembers was so, _so_ in love with Harry – or, maybe, Harry really had been a child and mistook friendship and brief infatuation for true love.

He doesn’t believe that, though, because believing that would mean also accepting that his feelings for Louis weren’t mutual, that Louis never loved him the way he loved Louis, and Harry would rather fucking die than believe that.

So he spends the day in his room, face hidden in his mattress as he falls in and out of fitful sleep, tears burning behind his eyes every time he opens them. He doesn’t want to think about Louis, but he can smell the faint citrus scent of him and can feel the ghost of him lying beside Harry. It’s not _fair_ the way his chest constricts, the way his heart stumbles on an uneven pulse. He can’t remember the last time he had a gentle, steady heartbeat.

~~_Fuck you, Louis, for still being the only one, for always being the only one. Tell me where I went wrong, tell me when I wasn’t enough for you anymore – when we weren’t enough for you. Tell me something, please, just tell me you’re sorry and tell me why you left me. Hold me so I don’t fall apart completely, hold me so what’s left me doesn’t fucking shatter. Louis Louis Louis…_ ~~

*

Liam is on edge. Harry can tell because instead of sleeping on the sofa that night, he shuts himself away in his ~~and Zayn’s~~ bedroom. Harry sits on the cold floor outside the closed door all night, in case Liam calls for him, in case he needs to barge in and try to hold together a fractured Liam. Thing is, he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to hold Liam up when he can barely keep himself standing. _Tick, tock,_ says the clock, and Harry can practically hear it count down the seconds until Liam breaks.

The clock ticks for less than two days before Liam leans against the doorstep of Harry’s room to declare, “We’re getting pissed tonight,” and it takes Harry a good seven seconds to process the words and their meaning. Liam isn’t a heavy drinker, never really has been as far as Harry can remember, so the sudden announcement is a bit disconcerting to say the least.

“Liam,” Harry starts a protest, but doesn’t really know what he wants to say – what he should say. He isn’t equipped to deal with his dead best friend’s boyfriend, who also happens to be a good friend. He doesn’t fucking know what he’s supposed to do or say, what the right course of action here is. He settles for, “I’m not – I don’t think I’m ready for a pub scene yet.” And it’s at least the truth. He genuinely does not think he can stand to be in a pub right now without seeing the ghost of a raven-haired boy everywhere, without throwing himself off the roof.

“You’ll never be ready unless you do it,” Liam counters, “we’re going.”

They don’t go anywhere.

Twenty minutes later when Harry walks by Liam’s room, he sees his friend fast asleep on the bed, blanket tucked up to his chin. It makes Harry smile, almost, to see him like this. After drinking two glasses of water, instead of going back to his own room, Harry quietly shuffles into Liam’s and, just as quietly, lies down on the other side of the bed a foot apart from Liam. It’s kind of nice, not being entirely alone – if only Harry could get used to it. His chest aches with longing, with the need to be next to the one person who always made him feel like home. ~~All he wants to do is sleep next to Louis and listen to a heart that used to beat to the rhythm of his name.~~ But, for now, he breathes in the faint, still familiar scent of sandalwood and rain, blinking away the sting of tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he’s only semi-conscious when he’s pulled into a body – only to be shoved away rather harshly, waking him up immediately. It takes only a moment for him to sit up and find himself looking at Liam – Liam, with manic eyes and trembling lips. “I – I thought…” His voice comes out strangled, like something is physically crushing his windpipe.

“Liam –”

“No.” It’s a whisper, it’s a premonition; then – _“NO!”_ The sound splits Harry apart, drags down his body like razors. Liam doesn’t shout. Liam doesn’t shout at anyone. “GET OUT! _OUT!_ JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, FOR FUCKS SAKE!” And instead of waiting for Harry to leave his room, Liam turns on his heels and walks out. Moments later, Harry hears the unmistakable shattering of glass, of something else hitting the floor. Harry’s still stunned, frozen in spot by Liam’s sudden outburst, but then he hears something else crash against the floor and he’s moving without really thinking about it, leaving the bedroom and following Liam into the living room and – _fuck._ There’s Liam, staring at the broken picture frames smashed on the floor, a trickle of blood dripping down his hand.

Harry knows which photos Liam is looking at; one of them is of him and Zayn at a party – Liam’s arm is carelessly thrown around Zayn’s shoulders and Zayn is smiling widely at Liam. He was saying something then, but Harry doesn’t know what; there’s a half empty bottle of beer in his hand. The other photo is of the three of them from the day Harry officially moved into the flat.

Liam just stands there, unmoving, staring down at the shattered pieces of what used to be.

“Liam –”

“I thought –” Liam doesn’t sound like Liam at all. He sounds like a lost child. The quiver in his voice reminds Harry of an icy precipice and he knows Liam is barely hanging onto it by just the tips of his tired fingers. Any minute now, he could lose grip and fall, fall, fall. “I thought you were him.” He drags his gaze up to meet Harry’s, something akin to an accusation in his kind brown eyes. “The bed still smells like him, a little bit, so I thought it was him and then – and then I remembered that he’s dead when it should’ve –”

 _It should’ve been you,_ Liam doesn’t say the words out loud, but Harry hears them anyway, feels them cut deep somewhere in his soul. He deserves it. It _should_ have been him.

~~This is all your fucking fault.~~

Liam kneels on the floors, scooping up the broken frames in his hands. He stares and stares, while Harry is frozen in his spot, breath caught in his throat. He doesn’t know this Liam, doesn’t know how to take care of this Liam.

“Liam –”

 _“He’s fucking gone!”_ The two frames in Liam’s hands hit the wall and glass crumbles to the floor in a sea of tiny diamonds. Harry flinches. “He’s just _gone!_ The bed still smells like him, his clothes still smell like him and like a goddamn fucking masochist, I _wear_ them! All the fucking time! I keep clinging to him like a child, wearing his clothes and clutching his pillow at night and visiting his mum – fuck, his mum kills me.”

He gets to his feet unsteadily, waving his arms around wildly. “And this fucking place.” He picks up the painting from the wooden floor – the one Zayn picked out – and throws it at the wall like it’s a fucking frisbee. “Every damn thing in this place reminds me of him! This,” he kicks at the sofa, “is where he fell asleep all the time. And that,” he gestures blindly at the window, “is where he liked to stand and phone Trisha. And over there,” he marches over to the step that separates the living room from their kitchen, “that’s where he liked to stand and watch us cook.” He snatches the small glass painting Zayn made (it’s of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger sitting on a tree branch) that’s hung up on the wall and throws it against the floor. The glass ricochets off the polished floor and a tiny fleck of it pricks Harry’s cheek. His eyes wander back to Harry, lost and desperate and helpless, “He’s gone and you’re here, and every bloody time I stitch myself back together, there you fucking are and every stitch comes undone again and leaves me bloodied because you should both be here.”

“Liam –”

“And I don’t even know what happened!” he screams, “You won’t fucking tell me! He fell off the roof. How the _fuck_ does that happen, Harry? It keeps me up at night and haunts me every moment that I’m awake, because I can’t fucking understand how he just _fell._ The police won’t say anything on the matter because I’m not _family_ and I can’t bloody well ask Trisha, can I? Can’t ask her to tell me how her son fucking died. _God_ , Harry, you _know._ You were there.” He falls to his knees again, right there on the single step. “Just – just, _please,_ tell me what happened. Just once. I’m – It’s fucking me eating me from the inside out.”

And Harry can’t listen, can’t keep listening to his friend’s broken pleas tug painfully at his own heartstrings, so he crosses to Liam in four long strides and pulls him into his arms, squeezing as tight as he can because he knows it helps, knows it because Liam and Zayn both used to hold him like this when he would fall apart time and time again because of Louis.

“Tell me,” Liam begs, his voice muffled by Harry’s shirt. It reminds Harry of a couple of nights ago, at the bridge, when he begged Louis to kiss him, just once, and it splinters his heart.

And Harry caves. With a giant fucking rock in his throat, he caves. His heart beats backwards, maybe, as he remembers.

“It’s my fault,” he starts, because, honestly, it is his fault. It will always be his fault. “I was – we were both pretty stupid drunk and I –” God, he didn’t realize how difficult it would be to talk about this. He didn’t expect to feel ashamed, but he does. He feels dirty and tainted and foul. “I was dancing, and I guess I didn’t pay attention to the bloke because –” He focuses on Liam’s scent, breathes in the soft cotton, “When I saw him, really saw him, I froze because he looked so much like Louis and I couldn’t fucking move, Liam, he just – he was there with his blue eyes and a smile that spelled trouble with a capital T and then he just – he kissed me and I ran.” Harry can feel it even now, the grossly sour taste of the boy’s mouth on his, and it makes him want to hurl. “I was having a fucking break down in the middle of the pub and I found Zayn and I took him up to the roof with me because I was fucking intoxicated and Zayn –” Harry’s crying now and he can feel Liam shaking with quiet sobs, too, but he can’t stop, not now. He hides his face in Liam’s hair, lets his tears fall freely. “He got me to breathe again and said, ‘Let’s fly, Harry,’ and he was standing so close to the edge, Liam, so close.”

Harry remembers the exact moment he knew Zayn would fall, the moment he knew he couldn’t do anything to stop him. He can hear the strangled Harry that fell from Zayn’s lips when Zayn fell.

 

“He bent to take off his shoes, but there was a huge crack near him and he – he put his foot down wrong and – fuck, I saw it. I saw him lose his balance and skid off the side but – I didn’t do anything. I could barely fucking stand, but I saw him slip and he held onto the edge for a second and held out his hand – god, I almost took it, I crawled to him and I almost took his hand to pull him over, but, Liam, I’m so fucking sorry. I touched his hand, I fucking _touched_ him, and he thought I got him, but I didn’t, I fucking _didn’t._ I lost my grip and he lost his at the same time and I literally felt him slip through my fingers. He fell because I let go at the wrong instant. So when I say that it should’ve been me, that it’s my fault he’s dead, I’m not saying it because I want Zayn alive. I’m saying it because it’s fucking true. I let go and I let him die. It’s my fault.”

With the truth laid between them in a pile of Harry’s gilded heart, Harry feels like he just confessed his biggest sin – which he did, honestly – but it doesn’t make him feel any better, any lighter. He still feels like he wants to fucking die, like he should die, but right now he has a broken Liam to tend to, so his own selfish desires will have to wait for once.

“You –” Harry wishes Liam would just say it, would just spit it out, would stop trying to spare his feelings. “I need my mum.”

“Liam –”

Liam doesn’t push Harry away, clutches Harry’s shirt in his hand a little tighter, but says, “I’ve been walking on eggshells, Harry. I feel – I feel like if I say one wrong thing or do one wrong thing, I’ll end up breaking you, but no one fucking sees that I’m so far beyond broken. I thought – god, I thought it was him. I’ve been so careful around you, and just when I was starting to be able to sleep in my own bed without him, you jumped in without asking, without warning, and I thought it was Zayn. I just keep trying to hold everyone together – you, his mum, his sisters, myself – and I’m fucking _dying_ , Harry, I can’t _do_ it. I just – I _need_ my mum. I’m so tired.” His voice shakes slightly, falters, then _breaks_ at the last words. “I’m so bloody tired,” he whispers, and it sounds like an admission of guilt.

And Harry’s rooted where he’s sat on the step, arms wound around Liam still. It isn’t that he ever forgot how much Liam has lost, how much Liam is hurting; it’s just Harry’s a selfish fucking piece of shit and he forgot how much Liam has lost and how much Liam is hurting. He remembers the early days after he realized Louis was gone – how Liam and Zayn took care of him, how much attention they paid to him, how they went out of their way to make him feel better. He hasn’t done that with Liam, whose boyfriend is _dead_ because of Harry. He hasn’t been there for Liam to cry, hasn’t been there to wipe away Liam’s tears and listen to him talk about how Zayn. He’s been a shit friend, again.

“I’ll call your mum, yeah?”

“Thanks.” Liam turns his face so it’s pressed into Harry’s neck. “And I don’t hate you, mate, I don’t blame you. I don’t.” He sounds sincere, damnit, is the problem. “I just need me mum.”

So that’s what Harry does. He calls Karen, explains to her that Liam needs to see her, needs to be with her, and asks if he can please drop him off at the house. Instead of saying yes, Karen says she’ll drive over and get Liam herself. And, normally, Harry would insist that it’s fine, he can drive, it’s not a problem, really, but truthfully, he’s exhausted. His head is pounding now, and his heart is hurting for Liam, and he feels _sick,_ so he lets it be.

Forty-five minutes later, Harry is alone in a silent flat that, only a month ago, used to be filled with three boys and boisterous laughter. Harry feels like he’s surrounded by ghosts. Everywhere in this place that was once home is littered with traces of Liam and Zayn; Zayn and Liam, Harry and Zayn; Zayn and Harry. There’s even some hazy reminders of Louis – Harry once kissed Louis on the kitchen counter, Harry once laid on his mattress in his room while Louis painted his back with the entire Milky Way, Harry once fell asleep on the kitchen floor and Louis carried him to bed. How cruel, Harry thinks, that, unlike other people – who have ghosts and skeletons hidden only in their closets, or dancing behind their eyelids – Harry’s nightmares follow him around even in his waking moments.

He feels… alone, which isn’t new, but this is feels different, somehow. When Louis left, he had Zayn and Liam, he had his mum and Louis’ mum and Gemma. When Zayn died, he had Liam and he had his mum. Now, he feels isolated – abandoned. And he knows that’s not true, really. _He_ left the comfort of his mother’s house, _he_ drove Liam away by being neglectful, _he_ fucked his own life over and he can’t blame it on anyone abandoning him because no one did, save for one person, but Harry doesn’t have the energy to think about him.

But, of course, that’s exactly what his mind does. Thinks of Louis. It flashes back to the few times Louis was over at this flat, the day he spilled the night sky on Harry’s back. Harry laid on his tummy in just his pants and Louis straddled his hips for almost four hours. Harry fell asleep several times while Louis painted, and he was woken up each time by soft lips pressing against his cheeks or his temple or gentle fingers tugging at his hair.

“I’m carrying the entire world on my back, Lou,” Harry said at one point, voice muffled by the pillow next to this face. “What if I break?”

“You won’t break,” Louis promised him. “You _are_ the entire world.”

And it was such a grossly sappy, _Louis_ thing to say that Harry could only giggle into the mattress, loving how cool the fresh paint felt against the bare skin of his back. There wasn’t really a reason for them to be doing this; Louis happened to have extra art supplies left from a project and Harry was a perfect canvas.

“I’m giving you the stars, babe,” Louis told him, “gotta start somewhere, yeah?” Harry felt Louis drop a sweet kiss to the bottom of his spine. “Stars today, the moon tomorrow. And then everything in between.”

And if Louis was a sap, then he was nothing compared to Harry. “All the stars are in your eyes, though.” He turned his head just a little to look over his shoulder, felt the indent of his dimple in his cheek. Louis looked – ethereal. He was topless, sitting on top of Harry, blue and black and red paint smudges marring his otherwise unblemished skin. The was a single white flower stuck in his hair, looking just a tad worse for wear. He was smiling at down at Harry, expression so fond and so tender, it knocked the breath out of Harry. “My starry eyes,” he murmured, lifting a foot to dig his heel gently into Louis’ bum.

“Look at you.” Louis sounded awed, cheeks rosy and something akin to reverence lacing his sweet words. _“God,_ pup, look at you. I wish you could see what I see. You look _celestial._ Absolutely unreal.”

There’s a pang in Harry’s chest as he remembers the affection that poured out of Louis when he looked at Harry, when he called him the human embodiment of the moon and the stars. He read somewhere that stars don’t die quietly – that when they do, they paint the darkness around them with color. Whoever said that was wrong, Harry thinks, because he’s certain he’s on the brink of becoming a supernova and there is nothing but a bleak void surrounding him. He’s going to explode, or shatter, but it won’t be marked by lively colors.

Harry writes in his journal again tonight.

_I think I’ve loved you in every life. Take me apart piece by piece, scatter my atoms across the cosmos, and still, they will know your name. They will come together and they will know you._

_But I lost you and my heart doesn’t know where to start looking._

*

Harry spends three days cleaning the flat. There isn’t much to clean, really, since it hasn’t been inhabited properly in a month, and Liam and Harry didn’t make too much of a mess in the week they spent here after Zayn. Still, there’s a thin layer of dust covering tabletops and cobwebs clinging to the walls. The kitchen floor needs mopping, and the fridge needs to be wiped clean from the inside out and needs to be restocked. Harry doesn't have a ton of money to stock an entire fridge, nor does he need to – considering he now lives alone – but he buy a hefty amount of groceries, nonetheless. It’s a distraction, you see, from his life that's falling to pieces around him.

It’s day four after Liam’s departure that Harry leaves the flat with a destination in mind. He’s texted Liam a few times, just to ask him how he’s doing and to apologize for everything, not that his apologies mean shit to anyone, but still, he tries. He _tries_ to tell Liam he feels guilty, that he would turn back time if he could and swap places with Zayn in a heartbeat. Liam’s texts back are always brief and to the point. Harry supposes he can't complain, seeing as he pretended Liam didn't exist for three weeks after Zayn died. It's only fair that Liam gets to grieve however he wants.

He called his mum, too, and told her he's fine. He is, he’s fine, and he's taking care of himself. He isn't starving, he isn't wallowing, he's alright. ~~He isn't.~~

So it’s four days later and Harry has cycled to neighborhood he used to know like the back of his hand. He's stood his bicycle outside a house that once felt like home, but has become a graveyard of many of Harry’s favorite memories. The days he and Louis spent practicing their lines for _Romeo and Juliet;_ the numerous times babysitting the twins turned into sneaky snogging sessions; the quiet, almost absentminded conversations they had about getting matching tattoos; the one night Harry told Louis about the kind of wedding bands he wanted and Louis kissing him breathless in the hammock. It all happened here. It feels like a lifetime away, like Harry’s just wandering through a time capsule, looking back on vivid memories now painted black and white.

It feels like his wounds have been torn open and he's bleeding again. ~~Bleeding love. He will always bleed love for his blue eyed miracle because the wounds he has won't ever heal.~~

But he isn't here for Louis.

He's here to see Jay. Sweet, strong Jay who has always been like a second mother to him. He's here for her.

Harry raises a fist to knock, but before he can do anything, the door flies open and Harry’s staring into a sea of blue. There was a smile on Louis’ face when he pulled the door open, but now it’s vanished, his brows drawn and eyes concerned. Keys dangle from his fingers as he rocks on the balls of his feet. “Hi, love,” he says softly, and it’s that voice – the one he only ever used when they were alone – that has Harry’s heart twisting painfully in its cage.  “Ya a’right?”

“Fine,” he lies, because he can’t very well confide in Louis, of all people. Louis, who left ages ago. Louis, who hasn’t bothered speaking to Harry in ages. Louis, who stopped loving Harry ages ago. Louis, who became a stranger when he left for uni. Because, honestly, this Louis isn’t Harry’s Louis. He looks the part, sure, with his bright eyes and sharp cheeks and soft mouth and a persona that screams warmth, but he isn’t the Louis who would have torn apart the world to be with Harry.

~~This Louis only tore Harry apart and didn’t stick around to put the pieces back together.~~

“Is Jay home?” If his voice sounds like he’s been crying, then fuck it, he doesn’t care. A tiny part of him hopes it hurts Louis, hopes Louis knows what he’s done to him. _I hate you, but I still fucking love you._

“Y-Yeah, she’s just got out of a shower. Think she’ll be down in a minute.” Louis’ still looking at Harry with that crease between his eyes. “D’you wanna come in? She’s been wanting to see you.” Louis opens the front door wider, takes a single step back to let Harry in. The doorway isn’t particularly wide, and when Harry passes Louis, he smells the faintest trace of citrus and he thinks it’s a miracle his legs haven’t given out. there’s only a few scant inches separating them and Harry’s traitorous fingers ache to pull Louis closer. “Make yourself at home, love,” Louis says from right behind him and Harry wants to scream at him to _please_ stop calling him that. But he doesn’t, because he’s here to see, not fight with Louis.

~~And the sadistic, masochistic side of him actually sighs at the sounds of it.~~

“I’m just headin’ out for some shopping,” Louis continues as they step farther into the house. “Fizz!” he calls. A minute later, Fizzy literally stumbles into the room with a wee little Daisy Tomlinson clinging to her legs. They both smile brightly when they spot Harry, and he feels a genuine smile take over his face in what feels like forever. “Hey, Fizz, tell Mummy that Harry’s stopped by, yeah? I’ll be back in a bit.”

Harry hears Louis’ voice only because he’s starved for it. If it were anyone else, he would’ve tuned them out because a small body is running at him and he’s crouching down to take Daisy into his arms. “How’s my favorite twin?”

“’M good,” she breathes in her ear, arms wound tightly around his neck, “I missed you. Why didn’t you come for so many days?”

She’s too young to know about the fallout between him and Louis, to know about Zayn and Harry, so Harry just rubs her back. “Sorry, love, I was a bit sick, but I’m better now.” Daisy pushes away from him just a little, presses a tiny hand to his forehead. He knows Louis’ still there, watching, and Fizzy’s gone to get Jay so they’ll both be here in a minute, but Louis’ attention is on Harry and Daisy and Harry feels uncomfortably hot, self-conscious.

“Mum’s sick, too, you know,” Daisy murmurs quietly, her baby blue eyes too grave for someone so young.

~~Go away, Louis, please, go away.~~

“Your mum’s strong,” Harry tells her with a kiss pressed to her tiny forehead. “She’ll be alright.” It’s a promise Harry can’t keep, but Jay has to be alright, damn what any doctor says.

“Hey, dove,” says Louis’ quiet voice, the one he always uses with his little siblings, “go fetch Mummy, please,” and Daisy untangles herself from Harry – only to walk a few steps over to Louis and beckons for him to get down to her height. He does, and she whispers something in his ear that makes him a small, barely there smile pull at his lips. “Alright, kiddo. Now go get Mum.”

And then there were two.

Harry tries, he tries so goddamned hard to not look at Louis, to not say anything to Louis, but the truth is, it isn’t up to him. Resisting Louis goes against Harry’s very essence. He learned in school that the planets are stuck orbiting the sun, tragically getting closer to its fire with every passing day, blissfully unaware of their inevitable end. Looking at Louis now, Harry thinks he knows how it must feel to fall headfirst into the grey chaos of a brewing storm with nothing but gratitude falling from his lips.

Because that’s what Louis looks like – stormy. He’s wearing a dark grey knit jumper with light grey joggers. Even his beanie is a shade of grey, and there are dark circles forming underneath his eyes. Harry wonders how much he’s responsible for those, if it’s true that Louis has been going to the bridge at night to look after Harry. His eyes are the only speck of real color on his person and Harry can’t help but notice that the stars in them are dimmed, hidden behind a cloud of sorrow.

Harry takes three steps towards Louis; Louis doesn’t move – just calmly blinks up at Harry. Harry remembers the last time he saw Louis, remembers how he begged Louis to kiss him, just once, and Louis didn’t care. He feels his heart splinter, but still, it doesn’t matter, because Harry is a fool for Louis. Always will be. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he lifts one hand to Louis’ face, thumb ghosting over the soft skin under Louis’ tired eye.

“Can we talk later, love?” Louis asks, softly.

“Don’t call me that,” Harry responds just as quietly. Harry closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of Louis, of home. He doesn’t know when it’ll be gone for good again. He tries to remember that he’s furious with Louis. “I miss you,” is what comes out of his mouth instead, an echo of the confessions he made the last time they were together.

~~_I hate you, too, but when you’re around, I can finally fucking breathe again._ ~~

Before Louis can answer, there’s the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching and Harry turns away from Louis, his fingers feeling cold now that they aren’t touching his favorite person. But there’s Jay, walking into the room with a purple towel wrapped around her head. She looks like she always does, eyes alight with warmth whenever she looks at Harry and mouth curled in a motherly smile. Harry feels something in him settle in place.

“Hello, darling,” Jay greets, arms already lifting in the air.  Harry crosses the room in a few long strides and lets her arms wrap around him, tightening his own around her shoulders. She smells like flowers and soap. She hugs Harry like she hasn’t seen him in years, and Harry almost bursts into tears because he hasn’t seen his own mum in a week and being held by someone he considers a mother feels so good, feels like nothing can hurt him, not as long as he’s in her arms. “Oh, we’ve missed you, Harry.”

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say, because he is. He should have come to see her the day his mum told him about Jay’s illness. “I’m really, really sorry, Jay.”

“Don’t be, love.” She leans back, but doesn’t step out of Harry’s arms, and presses a gentle hand against his cheek. “How are you?”

“Better,” he lies, because he can’t toss his negativity onto Jay. But the thing is, Jay knows him. She’s known him since he was a small child who couldn’t his left from his right, so she knows when he’s lying. She doesn’t call him out on it, doesn’t try to goad him into answering, but Harry adds a, “I’m getting by,” nonetheless, because he doesn’t _want_ to lie to Jay. “How are _you?”_

“Oh, let’s not get into just yet,” she says with a warm chuckle, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and she looks just like she always does. Harry doesn’t know how much of it is real and how much of it is a facade of bravado for the sake of her children. She looks over Harry’s shoulder and gestures with one hand. “Get going, Lou, and hurry back.”

Harry doesn’t look, but he hears Louis say, “Don’t let them leave without me,” and then he’s gone.

Jay pulls Harry into the kitchen, filling him in on her plans for the day. Lottie is working on a research project with a group of friends, Fizzie is meant to have someone come over, the twins have a playdate at the park in a bit, and the wee little ones are sleeping for once. So Harry helps Jay make sandwiches for Phoebe and Daisy and their friends. It’s so reminiscent of how Harry used to cook for the Tomlinson-Deakin family, before.

“How are you, Harry, really?” Jay asks at one point, voice turning quiet.

Harry doesn’t want to lie to her, he doesn’t, so he tries to be as honest as he can be without being too honest. “I think, given everything, I’m as fine as I can be.” He keeps his eyes on the bread in front of him, slices off the edges. “It’s still bloody hard all the time, but, I’m handling it. Haven’t fallen off the edge, yet.” It’s a poor, tasteless attempt at a joke, and Harry feels sick with himself.

“You’re not alone, love,” Jay tells him. She’s slicing cheese, but she pauses for a minute to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. Then she’s quiet for so long Harry thinks she might be done talking, so he opens his mouth to speaks, but then she asks, incredibly softly, “Have you spoken to Louis, yet?”

Harry’s tattered heart cracks at the sound of his name. “No,” he whispers, afraid of speaking too loud. He doesn’t want the girls to hear any of this. “Well, yes, but – he hasn’t, like – I saw him, once, but we didn’t talk much.”

~~_I saw him twice, during one of which he heard me admit I want to kill myself. The second time he was there to make sure I didn’t._ ~~

“I know he’s hurt you a great deal,” Jay acknowledges, “and you know I would never let him get away with that without giving him a proper talking-to and demanding an explanation.” Her voice is soft, and Harry isn’t looking at her, but he can clearly picture the glint in her eyes that’s sure there right now – the one that means serious trouble for whomever it’s directed towards. In this case, it’s Louis. “So I told him that. When he came home this time, I promised him if he doesn’t give you a reasonable explanation of why he did what he did – before something happens to me – I’m going to skin him alive.”

And there’s a lot in those words for Harry to process. Too many implications and too many requests that cause a stutter in Harry’s heart and fucks up his breathing so it comes in shallow pants. He closes his eyes, wraps his fingers around his left wrist and tries to feel his pulse and calm it down, one deep breath at a time.

“I’m not asking you to forgive him, H,” Jay is saying, “I know that’s not fair to you. I’d just like you to give him a listen, for me. I don’t know how much more time I have to fix this.”

At that, Harry looks up from the bread and meets Jay’s teary eyes. His own get misty. “What did the doctors say?”

“They said it’s up to me.” There’s a twist to Jay’s mouth when she answers, and it isn’t a pleasant one. “The chemo could kill me, or it could save me. It’s a one in a million chance, but it’s a chance. If I do it, and it works, I live.” She puts the knife down with more force than necessary. “If I do it, and it doesn’t work, I could die before my few months are over.” A heavy, suffocating pause. “Am I willing to take that chance?”

Harry’s head is spinning and his throat is heavy and oh, god, his eyes sting because this is _Jay._ He doesn’t what he’s meant to say, what his mum would say or what she did say, because he never imagined that he would ever have to worry about Jay being _sick._ He takes her hands in his, squeezes twice. “Tell me you’re going to fight,” he begs, and if that makes him a hypocrite, then Jay doesn’t need to know. “Tell me you’re going to take that chance, Jay, and you’re going to fight like _hell_ to beat this thing.” Hot tears spill down his cheeks, and he’s barely able to see that Jay’s cheeks are wet, too. “The kids need you, mum, and _I_ need you if you want me to talk to Lou. Please, _please,_ tell me you’re going to fight because I don’t think I’ll survive if I lose you, too.”

Jay tugs on his hands and pulls him in, wrapping her arms so, so tightly around his waist, her head pressed against his shoulders. Harry cries into her neck, not caring that it’s probably embarrassing, because this woman is a mother to him. He’s lost his favorite person in all ways but one, he’s lost not one, but two best friends, and he cannot lose Jay. Harry feels the kiss she presses to his chest.

“It’ll be the fight of my life,” she whispers, and Harry’s heart sags with relief.

Jay’s life isn’t hanging in the balance, not yet, but somewhere across town, someone else’s life is being held together by a very precarious thread, almost in response to the words Harry uttered just a few days ago.

 


	4. into the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry meets his new favorite girl. louis comes back to take care of what was once his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter is just a tad shorter than normal bc it was so fucking difficult to write and so emotionally draining. the poem harry writes in this chapter was written by the lovely alyssa.
> 
> songs for this chapter (i suggest making a playlist before u begin)  
> \- 24 floors by the maine  
> \- therapy by all time low  
> \- adam's song by blink-182  
> \- how do you feel by the maine  
> \- talk me down by troye sivan  
> \- fix you by coldplay  
> \- look after you by the fray  
>   
> warnings for the chapter: hints at self harming thought, a suicide attempt. please skip the second part of the chapter and go to the end if either of those are triggering. if you have any questions, you can talk to me on tumblr

Harry left the Tomlinson-Deakin house right after Jay texted Louis to find out how much longer he’d be out and he told her just another twenty minutes. So, ten minutes later, Harry said his goodbyes to Jay and the girls, promising them all he would come back to visit soon. Louis was nowhere near the house by the time Harry left, which should have been a relief, but there’s an emptiness lingering around Harry that he doesn’t fancy.

Instead of cycling back to the flat, Harry pedals in the direction of his mother’s house. He wants to see her, wants to tell her he saw Jay and what Jay asked of him. Mum would know what to do about Louis. She always knows what to do, so Harry wants her advice, wants to know if talking to Louis is weak and pathetic. ~~Even if he is both of those things when it comes to Louis.~~ When Harry gets to the house, however, it’s empty. The front door is locked, Robin’s car is gone (which isn’t unusual), but none of the lights inside are turned on.

The front door is never locked during the day when his mum is home.

Harry walks around to the backyard, which is not looking its best at the moment, and finds the spare key tucked into the fence. He lets himself in, choosing to ignore the strange sense of trepidation that settles over him like a hazy fog. Nothing is amiss in the house, though, as far as Harry can tell. Everything is neat and tidy, just like his mum always keeps it. Harry curls up on the small loveseat, phone out and fingers dialing his mum’s number. It rings and rings and rings – and then her voice chimes in, telling him to leave a message.

“Hey, Mum,” he starts, pauses to clear his throat, “I’m, uh, I stopped by to see you. Wanna tell you some stuff. Ring me back, please, when you get this.”

With his cheek pressed into the loveseat, Harry has a clear view of the picture frames hung up on the wall across from him. Truthfully, he doesn’t need to look at them to know which moments are immortalized in them, as he’s quite fond of some of them, but he stares, nonetheless. There’s him and Gemma when he was five years old, Gemma nine, and they’d climbed the tree that’s half on their property and half on Miss Julie’s. Or, well, Gemma had tried and succeeded; Harry had just desperately attempted to scale just the trunk of it and had failed. In the photo, Gemma is hanging off the tree with her skirt caught on a branch, her arms very obviously flailing about; Harry’s stood near the tree, watching his sister make a fool of herself with his hands on his hips.

And there, right above it, is one of Harry’s favorites: Harry and Louis, arm in arm, grinning without a single care in the world, from the day they both got to participate in _Romeo and Juliet_ when Harry was in year three _._ Louis was cast as Romeo, because of course he was, and Harry was the backup for the Nurse’s character, just in case something happened to Ronin, the kid who actually played the Nurse. The day the photo was taken was the only day Harry was able to perform, because as the powers that be would have it, Ronin did get sick before the second to the last show. All was well – Harry was in proper costume, Harry knew his lines, Harry was phenomenal. But Louis was Louis and that meant trouble with a capital T for eveyone, which is exactly what awaited them during the play when it was time for Romeo to kiss Juliet. Instead of kissing the love of his life, Romeo kissed the Nurse and scandalized the entire audience, as well as the rest of the cast.

It was both of their first kiss.

With a twinge in his heart, Harry remembers how _easy_ it was, how _natural_ to be with Louis. They were best friends, each other’s favorite friends, and they just _worked._ One day they were just best mates and then one day they were in love and it was so, _so_ easy. It made Harry feel safe, secure, like his whole life was sorted and he would never have to worry about finding anyone because he already had the person he shared his goddamned soul with.

Harry doesn’t have his journal, but he has his phone, so he turns it on and taps away at the screen, blinking back the sudden tears.

 I am a galaxy trapped inside  
A frail, human body with  
An even frailer mind.

 I found the cosmos and I fell in love;  
It was as easy as breathing— as _living_  
Even while my body was burning itself up on the inside.

We fit so well, like Fate had plucked half my soul and poured it  
Into you, but then you left and all I was a mess of  
Gaping wounds where stars spilled out like sludge.

 How do you breathe without air?  
How-do-you-breathe—  
How-do-you…

 I am half a human without you with me.  
I was already broken, my ragged edges  
Only fused together by your presence.

 Something went wrong, we went wrong.  
No, maybe I was wrong for you;  
Maybe it’s my fault.

 Sometimes trapped stars swirling underneath  
My skin are too much because you are my universe, my cosmos—  
~~(Not mine anymore)~~ but you are human too.  
We could only burn so bright together  
Before we explode, atoms scattering into the empty space  
So you left, _you left_.    

There’s more he’d like to say, so much more he wants to tell Louis and so much that he wants to ask Louis, but he feels like he’s been wrung dry. Clutching a cushion to his chest, Harry’s eyelids slowly get heavy, everything in his line of sight becoming a soft blur. It’s a blissful state, dancing on the edge of unconsciousness, and one he’d like to stay in for a while. But then his phone vibrates against his arm and Harry startles awake. Robin’s name flashes on the screen when Harry picks it up, and he genuinely considers letting it go to voicemail, but there's unease squeezing his insides and he hasn't heard back from Anne yet, so, with great reluctance, Harry answers it.

“Hello?”

“Harry,” Robin responds without preamble, his voice clipped. He sounds a bit like he's been yelling, or perhaps crying. It doesn't make Harry feel better.

Harry waits for more, waits one, two, three, seven whole seconds for Robin to continue, but his stepfather only breathes sharply on the other end, so Harry says, rather harshly, “What do you want?”

“There's been an accident,” Robin says then, and it’s only four words. It's only four words and somehow they still manage to turn Harry’s blood to ice, even though he has not the faintest idea as to which accident Robin is talking about. Harry stares unblinkingly at the wall, barely hears the words when Robin tells him, “Your mother’s had a, um, she had a fall, and they've taken her into the operating room, so you should get here before she gets out.”

Ice melts, turns to fire, and Harry’s brain is nothing more than Robin’s voice and _your mother,_ and _accident,_ and _operating room._ Harry sees nothing but his mum’s face — pained and helpless the night he walked out of her house. Out of this house. He can only hear her voice begging him to stay and his mind conjures up an image of her lying limp on a hospital bed of some sort.

~~This isn't real this isn't real this isn't real he’s lying to you this isn't real she's okay this isn't real he’s ju—~~

“The baby might not make it,” Harry thinks Robin is saying, “but the doctors promised they'd do their best to save ‘em both, so just get here as fast as you can.”

_The baby might not make it, the baby might not make it, the baby might not make it, the baby might not make it, the baby might no —_

“I’ll message you the room number and such,” Robin is still fucking talking, not giving a single fuck that Harry’s fucking suffocating he can't _breathe_ he can't even fucking see anything besides his mother's face, the laughter in her eyes and the warmth in her face when Harry heard his sister’s heartbeat for the first time, when she kicked at the sound of his voice. _“She likes your voice,”_ his mum had said then, and Harry remembers being excited then, remembers being so goddamn bloody happy, remembers feeling like things would be okay, eventually, in the end. He remembers the night, too, when he said to Robin that perhaps the baby shouldn’t be coming into this world, that perhaps they’d both do well without each other.

Harry’s moving, getting out of the house before he consciously makes a decision to do so.

First he somehow drove Louis far away from himself. Then he literally led Zayn to his death. Just days ago he caused Liam to snap.

_He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t –_

He’s on his knees on the pavement, tiny droplets of rain falling on him and around him, and, god, will it ever fucking stop raining here, because he can’t _breathe_ and he’s shaking, everything he’s done and said in the last month taking him apart inch by part, cutting him open and leaving him bleeding, suffocating.

It hurts. It fucking _hurts._ There was a time, perhaps a month ago, when Harry would have said that he hurt because he wasn’t loved. Right now, he knows, he fucking knows that’s wrong because the pain he’s feeling doesn’t mean he wasn’t loved; it means he loved. He loved ~~loves~~ Louis, he loved Zayn, he loves Liam, he loves his mum and his sister. His heart could burst with all the love and affection he feels for these people, and perhaps that's why it hurts so much. He loves too much, and every time he loses someone he loves, it chips at his already weathered heart, leaves it that much more exhausted, struggling to keep beating steadily.

With a sob wracking his entire frame, Harry gets to his feet, walks down the street without seeing where he’s going. It’s muscle memory at this point; he knows exactly where every crack in the pavement is and where every twist and turn is. He walks and he cries, breath stuck in his throat and knees trembling with each step. A minute or an hour passes, or maybe time is standing still, because suddenly Harry’s standing at the edge of the main road, watching cars zips by him on the motorway. It would be so easy, so bloody easy, to close his eyes and keep walking. If he times it right, it would be near impossible for a car to stop before colliding with him.

Harry closes his eyes.

The sight that greets him behind his eyelids is his best friend’s face. It’s Zayn, whacking Harry upside the head, asking, _“What the fuck are you doing?”_

Eyes still closed, with a heart too heavy for his chest, Harry thinks, _I’m tired, Z. I keep fucking everything up for everyone and I’m fucking tired and I want it to end._

 _“You don’t wanna_ [ _die_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/4QKffrD74A7eTmKqRgIeZH) _, Harry,”_ is what Zayn says.

 _You’re not real,_ Harry responds, _you’re not fucking real because I let you die and now my mum is being operated on and my sister might be dead and it’s my fault, again._

 _“Your mum and your sister need you. Go to them.”_ The thing is, Harry listens to Zayn. He always used to listen to Zayn because Zayn always gave sound advice, always had Harry’s best interests at heart. Always got through to Harry. _“Take a breath, Harry, and empty your mind. You don’t wanna die. Go see your mum and sister.”_

And another thing is, even if Zayn isn’t real, his voice in Harry’s head is, his face behind Harry’s eyes is. He takes a hesitant breath and it still grates against his throat on its way out and Harry opens his eyes. Takes one step back from the edge of the road. While heavy tears streak down his face, Harry turns on his phone with hands that keep fucking shaking and orders an Uber for the hospital. It takes him seven attempts to type the address Robin texted him.

The four minutes he stands there waiting are spent seeing Zayn’s face, hearing his voice telling Harry he doesn’t want this. He thinks of his mum and his little sister, thinks of Gemma and Liam, thinks of how they’ll remember him – if at all. _You don’t wanna die, Harry,_ the ghost of his best friend keeps telling him. And then the Uber is pulling up in front of him and Harry’s getting in the backseat, not even attempting to smile politely at the driver. Harry doesn’t know how long they drive for, but it isn’t very long, as they’re parked outside the hospital entrance before he’s prepared himself and he’s getting out, stumbling over his own feet.

_Please, please, please, be okay, Mum, please keep the little one safe, I’m so sorry so, so sorry._

The lady at the information desk regards him with kind, concerned eyes when he says he’s here to visit his mum and gives her name and shows his identification. He’s barely able to keep the tears back in front of her when she hands him a visitor’s ID and tells him what floor the room is located on. “I hope she’ll be alright, love,” is the last thing she says to Harry gently, her voice sincerely soft.

Harry stumbles his way to the room that’s meant to keep his mum. It’s on the twelfth floor, in the central wing, and Harry’s in the lift as it goes up and up and up, stopping on various floors to let people in, and all he can think is, _Mum, please be okay I’m so sorry._ When he gets out of the lift on the twelfth floor, Harry turns right and walks down the hall, takes a left and continues down another hallway until he nears Room 317, and he freezes outside the ajar door. He can just barely hear Robin talking very softly and he could swear his heart fucking collapses right then.

_Mum, I’m so sorry._

Harry wipes at his face, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard to feel something other than the tears stinging his eyes. A trembling fist knocks on the door twice and three beats pass before Robin is opening it all the way. Harry doesn’t look at him – can’t look at him – and steps into the room without a word and – oh. There’s his mum, laid back on a bed that looks the farthest thing from comfortable, hooked up to IV’s and needles and fluids and things Harry doesn’t know the names of. When Harry’s eyes connect with his mother’s, her lips quirk up just the tiniest bit and she croaks out, “Hi, baby.”

Harry hasn’t stopped crying, it seems, because he feels tears fall from his chin as he crosses the small room to crouch by his mum’s side. He tries to take her hand in his, but it’s connected to fifty million things, so Harry opts for resting his hand on top of hers. “Mum, I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can say to her, and it doesn’t sound like his voice, not at all. But that’s only fair, because his mum doesn’t look like how she has in the last few months. Her skin is cold and pale, worry lines clear on her forehead, and her eyes are angry pink. The swelling of her belly that Harry had gotten used to is gone.

“The baby –” There’s a million apologizes he wants to offer and a thousand questions he wants to ask, but the words get stuck somewhere inside him and he can’t _breathe._

“She’s okay,” Anne whispers, fingers moving to wrap around Harry’s. “Come sit next to me,” she says, and it sounds only slightly like a question, so Harry gets up from the floor and sits at the edge of the bed. His mum takes his hand in both of hers, squeezing gently. “Why are you crying, love? It’s okay, we’re all okay.”

“Mum.” The word comes out broken in every single place. Harry hides his face in her hair, wanting to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo, but all he gets is the sharp tang of sterilized hospital equipment. “Mum, I – I’m sorry, I’m so bloody sorry I said those things the night I left because it’s – I said all that. I said maybe the baby shouldn’t be born and then – fuck, Mum, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I promise.”

“Oh, Harry.” His mum squeezes their hands tighter and raises them up to brush a kiss across Harry’s knuckles. “Baby, this isn’t your fault. I just slipped at the shop because the floor was wet and there wasn’t a warning sign. And your sister is alright.” She nudges Harry’s shoulder with her head. “She’s in the NICU, currently without a name.”

The NICU. Harry doesn’t know a lot about different room in hospitals, but he knows the NICU is not where a newborn is meant to be. She wasn’t supposed to be born for another three months.

_You’re the reason she’s there it’s all your goddamn fucking fault._

“D’you wanna go see her?” his mum asks. And, yes, Harry wants to see her, but he doesn’t know if he can. Doesn’t know if he’ll be able to look at her without wanting to fucking die. “I can call a nurse to take you up.”

Not yet. No, he isn’t ready, he isn’t fucking brave enough to face his baby sister. She deserves someone better than him for a big brother. “Have you thought of names?” he asks instead.

His mum rubs her thumb across the back of his hand. “I’m thinking Harriet. Harriet Twist.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat. “Mum.” He doesn’t know what he wants to say, but he knows he doesn’t want his sister named after him. She deserves better than that.

“You’re both my little fighters,” his mum says, and turns her head to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You’re both so strong, love, and I’m so proud of you, d’you know that? So immensely proud.”

Harry fights the painful lump in his throat, blinks back tears and tries to smile when he says, “Harriet Anne Twist?”

“Two Anne’s around is plenty, don’t you think?”

“Gemma will be jealous.”

“She’ll live – and be here soon, as well.”

There’s a moment of silence. Their hands are still linked, Harry’s cheek is still pressed into her hair, and there’s still tears in Harry’s eyes. The reality, perhaps, hasn’t exactly set in, yet. His mother is alive. His little sister is alive, too, somewhere in this godforsaken building. They’re both alive, and as well as can be. Harry untangles his hand and wraps an arm gingerly around his mum, carefully squeezing her just a little closer to him. “I’m really sorry, Mum,” he tells her again, the words getting lost somewhere in her hair when they fall from his mouth.

“Don’t be,” she tells him, “go see little Harriet. I think she’s been waiting for her big brother.” The words are meant to be encouraging, he knows, but they only make him feel guiltier, reminds him of his part in this unfortunate turn of events. “Go, baby.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay, Mum,” he presses into her forehead, dropping a kiss there as he gets up from her side. “I’ll be back.”

Harry leaves the room without a word to Robin because, frankly, there isn’t anything he wants to say to the man. He locates a sign in the hall, near the lift, that lists all the rooms and floors. The NICU is located on the fourth floor, so Harry gets in the lift and finds himself on the fourth level just minutes later. It’s very obviously a pediatrics wing, judging from the small children sleeping or eating in their rooms. Harry follows the arrows and signs on the walls to the NICU, and when he gets there, he asks a nurse in pink scrubs for the Twist baby. “I’m her brother,” he says, and shows his visitor’s ID. The nurse takes him into the NICU, where teeny tiny humans are carefully placed inside glass boxes Harry doesn’t know the name of, wearing nothing but tiny nappies. They’re all so _small._

The nurse stops next to one baby and says, “Here she is,” and when Harry looks at the baby who could probably fit in the palm of his hand, he can’t stop the tears that flow.

She’s got tubes a few tubes connected to her, her eyes are closed and hands curled into tiny fists, and she’s asleep. And she’s his sister. The thought hits him hard – _his sister._ The one who liked listening to the sound of his voice. Harry crouches down, kneels on the floor of the NICU and reaches into the glass from the hole in the side, and touches her small fist with a finger. “Hi, little one.” It’s a whisper, a prayer, an apology. Her skin is warm where it touches Harry’s finger and Harry’s heart cracks, cleaves, shatters into a million pieces.

“Would you like to hold her for a bit?” the nurse asks, and Harry startles a little. He isn’t alone, he remembers. Would he like to hold her? He shouldn’t. She’s so _small_ and _fragile_ and _delicate,_ and Harry might be the reason she’s in this room, so, really, he should keep away from her, and he open his mouth to say just that to the nurse, but what comes out is, “Yes, please.” And then the nurse is moving forward to unhook the cables and move the lid to take little Harriet out. When the nurse holds her out to Harry, his heart flutters and then soars, because this is his little baby sister, the one he’s been waiting to meet for months now.

And then she’s in his hands, fitting perfectly in his palms, eyes still closed. He holds her close to his chest and memorizes every little detail of her face. She looks, well, not like every other newborn, because babies born after the full nine months are bigger and stronger and _fuller._ This tiny thing in Harry's hands can’t open her eyes, her ears are just a little smidge by her head, and her fists are the most endearing thing Harry has ever seen. “Hello, my love,” he whispers, and brushes the gentlest kiss along to the apple of her cheek. His heart might explode from affection, Harry thinks, if he continues holding her. But he doesn’t want to let her go, either. “My little Harriet,” he’s practically crooning, lips brushing the shell of her ear. He kisses her forehead once, so, so softly. “I’m so sorry for what I said, I love you. Love you so much, you know? I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.” A tear falls on her cheek and Harry kisses it away.

 _She’s here because of[you](https://open.spotify.com/track/0jh2HyqarexLFrEyN1dpKp), _ a voice spits at Harry. _Always going around ruining things for everyone. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?_

 _I didn’t do this,_ he wants to scream, but who’s to say that he didn’t? He didn’t mean to hurt Zayn, but that’s still what happened. He never meant to hurt Liam, but that’s still what happened. He never meant to hurt his mum or his sister – never even considered it a possibility – but that’s exactly what happened. He even hurt Louis, somehow, because why else would he leave? All Harry does is hurt people, always.

_So fucking stop._

“I love you so, so very much, little one. Always,” he tells his sister one last time. Kisses her cheek one last time. Hugs her close to his heart one last time. Then he holds her out for the nurse. “Thank you. You can put her back.” The nurse takes Harriet from Harry’s hands and he feels so fucking empty it almost brings him to his knees. He doesn’t stick around to watch Harriet get hooked up to tubes and needles again. He can’t. He stumbles out of the NICU and almost directly into Robin, who’s walking in. They don’t say anything to each other, but Robin’s eyes are cold as ever when they connect with Harry’s, and then he’s pushing past Harry, leaving him gasping for breath.

Harry doesn’t go back to his mother. There’s an itch under his skin, Zayn’s voice is back in his ears, and he needs to fucking get it _out._ Right now. He’s calling for a taxi before he’s even in the lift. Nothing really matters, does it? He needs to get home. That thought is laughable, too, because home used to be blue eyes and a heartbeat that sung Harry’s name and now it’s just brick walls and windows.

 _Not for long,_ Harry promises himself, _none of it matters anymore none of them need you they’re better off without you. If you’re lucky, maybe they’ll remember you_ _fondly_ _._

*

When Harry gets back to the flat, a trembling wreck of nerves and jitters, he makes a beeline for his room, sits at his desk that hasn’t been paid attention any attention to in quite some time. He pulls out a notebook from the clutter and finds a blue pen and pours out his goodbyes. He knows that words that come from the heart never quite make it out; they get trapped and caged in the throat and can only be seen in the eyes, but Harry doesn’t have time for that, so spilling his thoughts on this paper will have to [suffice](https://open.spotify.com/track/43NhiKnrtGqztxDqXrcUux).

_Mum, Gems, I’m really really sorry I tried to be better for you, all of you, I wanted to be a better son and a better brother but I couldn’t be and im really sorry please please don’t be mad at me or at yourselves I love you both so very much and I always have always will you’re both my favorite girls forever._

He’s shaking, tears falling on the fresh ink and smudging the letters, but it doesn’t matter because it’s still legible and that’s all that counts.

_Liam, im sorry I couldn’t be a better friend and thanks for always being there for me even when I didn’t deserve it_

Liam would hate this, he would hate Harry for this. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone hates Harry for something.

_Trisha I’m sorry for what I did to Zayn I didn’t mean to hurt him I lov ed him so much and I hate myself please im so sorry_

He hopes Trisha finds it in herself to forgive him, at some point. He never could, but he knows how generous a mother’s a heart can be, and he hopes Trisha loves him enough to forgive him.

 _Louis Tomlinson,_ he writes, hand shaking almost violently, tears filling his eyes so quickly he can’t see a single fucking thing. Harry wipes furiously at his face, keeps blinking back the tears as he picks up the pen again and continues. Saying goodbye fucking _hurts,_ and for once in his life Harry’s glad Louis never said his.

 _Louis Tomlinson, I have_ [ _loved_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/6AH3IbS61PiabZYKVBqKAk) _you until my dying breath. I wish, just a little bit, that you were here so I could kiss you one last time and tell you I love you despite all the pain you’ve caused me because I’m sitting on the edge of life and death and I want nothing more than to see you one more time. I’m leaving my heart behind with you, starry eyes, please keep it tethered to yourself._

_I promised your mum that I would hear you out, let you explain why you stopped answering my calls and let us become strangers, but time and fate isn’t on our side, it seems, so I forgive you. Whatever your reasons might be for hurting me, Louis, I forgive you, because I promised to choose you above all else, always. I will always choose you, in every life, in every death, you are the one for me. It’s been a pleasure being in love with you._

_There are a million things I want to tell you because you’ve been gone for so long and you’re still my favorite person, but I don’t have time so I’ll settle for only two._

_One is that I wanted to marry you. You know this already, because I told you it, but I wanted to marry you and give you the entire world and have kids with you and maybe you thought I wasn’t serious so I’m telling you one more time: I wanted to marry you so much. I wanted to be yours, only, in every sense of the word, and I wanted you to be mine._

_The second thing is this: there’s a ring in my old room, in a tiny silver box, if you wish to have it._

_Perhaps I don’t have the right, but I’ll ask one thing of you. I want you to make a list of your favorite things and I want my name to be somewhere on it, if not at the top, because if you look at mine you’ll find your name to be the first one on it._

_Always in my heart, starry eyes. Ever yours truly, Harry Styles._

Harry’s heart is in ruins, punching against his ribcage in one fractured beat after another. His face is wet, Harry stinging, and the room is a blur around him. His phone is vibrating again in his pocket. Harry ignores it in favor of closing his eyes and picturing Louis’ face, all the versions of it he likes best – when his smiles bright enough for the corners of his eyes to crinkle, when he giggles his shy laugh and tries to cover it with his hands, when he wakes up in the morning with furrowed brows that only even out when he gets a good morning kiss (at least that’s how Harry remembers it), when he used to smile so gently right before pulling Harry into a kiss, when he wears glasses instead of his contacts and keeps sliding them up the bridge of his nose.

~~His phone is still buzzing.~~

He wishes [Louis](https://open.spotify.com/track/1IF5UcqRO42D12vYwceOY6) were here now. He never got to say goodbye the first time, but that’s okay, in hindsight, because he got to at least see Louis again. This time, that’s not the case. The last thing he said to Louis, he remembers, was _I miss you,_ and damn it all, he misses Louis so much it’s a physical ache in his chest, twisting like a rusted knife. He wishes he could hear Louis’ voice, just once, to make this easier. Because, see, the thing about death is, she’s a stranger that forcibly makes her way into everyone’s lives, but meeting her willingly is more nerve-wracking than her showing up uninvited.

Harry gets up from the desk, phone going off incessantly in his pocket, and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water. There’s cherries on the counter, some cut into a bowl, the rest still in the plastic container. There’s a knife next to them from earlier when Harry was cutting them before his impromptu visit to see Jay.

Harry runs a finger along the maroon handle, thoughts ablaze. So many ways to end a life, just like that. Humans are so invincible. Bones that fracture and break only to mend, skin that rips open only to seal back shut, organs that get damaged only to heal. Even the brain has plasticity, can recover from trauma. But humans are so _delicate,_ too. One deep enough cut across the wrists and they’re done for. It’s a bit bittersweet.

Harry leaves the knife where it is and pours himself a glass of water. He won’t make a mess for anyone to clean up; he’s done enough of that already. Next stop is Zayn and Liam’s room. There’s a small brown bookshelf here, and on it are four bottles of different medications. Three years ago, Zayn was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and a case of chronic depression. The pills belong ~~ed~~ to him, so it’s only fitting for them to be Harry’s way out.  

Harry goes back to his room with the two bottles and water in hand, and sits at the vanity. The person who looks back at him in the mirror is a stranger. His hair is slightly greasy and disgusting, clearly hasn’t been washed in a few days. His skin is sickly pale and his cheekbones are too sharp, cheeks too hollow to be healthy. And his eyes. The green in them is muted, as though shadowed by a grey cloud, and his waterline is an angry pink. There are ghosts trapped in those eyes, ghosts that haunt Harry, as well, he feels his heart lurch painfully as he sees a flash of recognition flit across the face of the man in the mirror.  

[Harry](https://open.spotify.com/track/0nRuVPZx2iA3KWR4xSzryl) slips a hand under the neckline of his jumper and pulls on the chain around his neck, finger curling around the ring hanging from it. A matching one has been in a tiny silver box in his old room for more than two years.

_I love you, Louis, I wish you never left me._

Harry opens one of the bottles and shakes out however many pills on top of the vanity. His hands shake.

_I’m sorry, Zayn._

His heart was withered down to nothing, Harry was so sure, but right now it’s crashing against his ribs so hard and fast, so painfully, it brings tears to his eyes again. He puts one white tablet on his tongue and washes it down with a sip of water. Some of it spills.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

His phone hasn’t stopped vibrating, so he pulls it out of his pocket to shut it off, but his fingers freeze when he sees the name that’s been calling and texting him constantly. It’s a name that hasn’t lit up Harry’s phone in ages, a name Harry has wished so desperately to see for so long. He’s called it so many times, texted it so many times, but his every attempt went unanswered. The last text, if Harry checks, will read, _happy birthday. xx_

 _Loueh_ , reads the top notification, and underneath it, _Voicemail & Missed Call. _ Below that is a string of texts and missed calls, all from _Loueh_ or his Mum’s number. Harry’s frozen in his spot, heart hammering, and he’s still staring at the phone when the screen lights up with another text that says, _Harry PLEASE answer please I’m begging,_ and Harry’s drowning, breath lost somewhere in his throat and heart reaching out to Louis. Time freezes, just like Harry’s entire being, and the phone is buzzing again with a call, _Loueh_ flashing as the caller ID. Treacherous, unsteady fingers are answering the call without Harry’s permission.

~~This is the name his heart has been crying out, this is the name he wants cocooned around his heart, this is the name that sounds almost like a prayer when it falls from Harry’s lips.~~

He says Louis’ name, or maybe he doesn’t, because he can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart in his throat, but then Louis whispers, “Harry,” and it’s a relieved, broken sound – one that settles in the cold corners of Harry’s heart. It unravels him. “Harry, where are you? _God,_ tell me where you are, I’m coming to get you.”

And something snaps in Harry. He was already on the edge, already hanging on by the tips of his fingers, but something happens and he’s falling falling falling – “Louis, I’m dying,” and he can barely get the words out over the sob that threatens to end him. “I’m – at the flat and I-I’m sat here, with Zayn’s meds and I’ve already taken two because I fucking want to die and I was missing you but –”

“Harry, listen to me.” This time Louis’ voice is clear. It’s still devastatingly sad, and it kills Harry to know it sounds like that because of him, but he clings to it like it’s an anchor and he’s quite literally drowning. “Listen to my voice, love, I’m coming. I’ll be there soon, just – listen to me, yeah?”

“I can’t, Lou, I’m trying but I _can’t,_ fuck.” ~~_I just want to hold you._ ~~

“Yes, you can.” Harry can hear muffled sounds from the other end of the line, but can’t make out what they are. He tries to hold on to Louis. “Get into bed, pup, I’ll sing to you. Tell me when you’re in bed, ‘m right here.”

Harry stares at the pills scattered on the vanity. He can still taste the bitter aftertaste of the ones he swallowed minutes ago. “Louis,” he says, “my heart fucking hurts. So much.”

“I know, love, I know, just get into bed. Wanna sing to you.” He sounds pained, but Harry knows him, and he can just see the smile that tugs at his lips when he says the words, but doesn’t quite blossom.

One hand clutched around the ring dangling from his neck and the other pressed against the phone, Harry gets up from the vanity and falls onto his mattress, hiding his tear-stained face in the sheets. He listens to the sound of Louis breathing, tries to match his heartbeat to Louis’. It’s so bloody difficult. “I’m in bed.”

“’Kay, I haven’t sung for anyone in a while, so ‘m a bit rusty, yeah? Don’t judge me too harshly.” The softest chuckle reaches Harry and he commits the sound to memory, wants to get drunk on it.

And then Louis’[singing](https://open.spotify.com/track/1SWPQul8Zr5jezPUYPcLwR).

 

 _And high up above or down below_  
_When you're too in love to let it go_  
_But if you never try you'll never know_  
_Just what you're worth_  
_Lights will guide you home_  
_And ignite your bones_  
_And I will try to fix you_

 

Harry can’t listen to these words, can’t listen to the words he knows are next, so he shoots himself on the foot and says, “Lou,” and when Louis stops singing: “sing me our song. Please.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He clutches the ring together in his hand and it’s almost painful the way it digs into his palm, but it’s fine, it’s a distraction. “Miss you,” he breathes into the sheets.

“I’m coming, H. Close your eyes.”

He does. Louis [sings](https://open.spotify.com/track/5l6hpyTGBK0LAAxgPnqTQL).

 _If I don't say this now I will surely break_  
_As I'm leaving the one I want to take_  
_Forget the urgency but hurry up and wait_  
_My heart has started to separate_  
_Oh, oh, oh_  
_Oh, oh, oh_  
_Be my baby_

Harry remembers the younger version of him nestled into Louis’ body, half asleep as Louis sang the words.

_I'll look after you_

~~Please come to me.~~ Louis’ singing, voice soft, lulling Harry to sleep again, but he clings to consciousness, for once doesn’t want to fall asleep. Louis’ singing to him after so long, and the sound is Harry’s own personal heaven.

 _It's always have and never hold_  
_You've begun to feel like home_  
_What's mine is yours to leave or take_  
_What's mine is yours to make your own_

There’s commotion from Louis’ end of the line, his breath a little labored, and then there’s knocking on the front door and Louis’ voice saying, “Come open the door for me, love,” and Harry’s getting up from the mattress, phone still pressed to his ear, not wanting to let go for even a second. The walk from his little bedroom to the front door usually takes ten seconds, but right now it feels like he’s been walking for ten thousand hours and when he turns the lock and pulls the door open, there’s Louis in a yellow jumper looking like sunshine personified and he’s staring at Harry, tears slipping down his cheeks as he steps up to Harry and finishes the song.

 _Be my baby_  
_Oh, oh, oh_

“You can fight me and yell at me,” Louis says to him, voice strained and pleading, hand brushing against Harry’s cheek. “but please, Harry, don’t _ever_ scare me like that. Can’t lose you.”

“Louis,” is all that Harry can say and he hopes, god, he hopes Louis can still read him like an open book and can see in his eyes what he wants to say, even if he doesn’t know what it is. Louis doesn’t leave any space between them, pulls Harry into a bone crushing hug and Harry can do nothing but let himself be held. There are no words to be said, not at the moment, so Harry just falls into Louis; he’s a black star that exploded, drenching everything in darkness, and Louis is the supernova that’s bringing back color into Harry’s world.

Louis leads them to Harry’s room, arms still wound around each other, both of them holding on for dear life. Harry breathes in the citrus scent of home, the dewy rain that clings to Louis, and something that is so sweetly distinctly Louis. _This is home. This is home. I’m home. Louis’ home. You’re home I missed you so –_

They’re on his mattress, Louis undoing Harry’s boots and taking them off before toeing off his own, tucking Harry under the duvet and getting in next to him, pulling Harry into his chest. Louis’ heart doesn’t have a steady beat; it’s racing under Harry’s cheek and Harry blindly reaches for Louis’ hand, presses it against his own chest, where his heart is stuttering. “Breathe with me, Lou,” he whispers. Their limbs are tangled together and Louis’ in his bed and Harry’s still trying to process it, trying to ignore the pills that he knows are scattered on the small vanity. A minute or an hour passes, Louis’ pulse evens out, Harry tilts his head back, his lips brush against Louis’ chin when he breathes, “Will you kiss me?” and Louis’ arm tightens around him and his heartbeat skyrockets.

“Not tonight,” says Louis, and if there’s a knife lodged in Harry’s heart, then who cares, really. Before he can ask why not, why Louis is here in his bed holding him yet refuses to kiss him again, Louis continues, “You’re quite literally in the middle of an existential crisis, 

your emotions are heightened, and I don’t think you need things to be more confusing.”

Harry knows Louis doesn’t mean for the words to be condescending, but they still are, and they still sting. He pushes Louis away, but Louis only holds him tighter. “You’re the one person my entire existence always comes back to, you’re the one who always makes things clear – case in point being this fucking moment – so if you don’t want to kiss me, then just say that, but, please, don’t lie to me.

“I do want to,” Louis admits, and Harry’s heart untwists, just a little.

“Then do it.” Harry sits up, puts his head between his knees, and then looks at Louis, who’s also sat up. “I don’t care that I’m supposed to be angry with you, I don’t care if it’s confusing, I don’t care if you think I’ll regret it. I won’t. I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. I was sitting here saying all my goodbyes and all I wanted was just another kiss from you, so, please, just once more, Lou.”

Louis’ eyes are a thunderstorm during the summer. He cradles Harry’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing along the apples of Harry’s cheeks. “Please don’t ever say goodbye to me,” is what Louis breathes, their mouths close enough to touch but not quite. Harry lets his eyes close, savors the taste of Louis when he feels warm lips press against his own, and this – this is everything and nothing. It won’t heal Harry, not by a long shot, but it is everything Louis and that is all Harry wants. If there’s a million butterflies fluttering in his chest, if his heart has skipped too many beats, if he can’t breathe, then that’s okay.

It lasts only a moment and it’s more than anything Harry could have hoped for.

Louis doesn’t let go of Harry when he pulls back. Instead, he lays them down on the mattress again, holds Harry close to himself.

“Will you stay?” Harry asks.

“I’m not going anywhere, my love,” Louis promises, and in the moment, Harry chooses to believe him.

The sun has set outside, the sky slowly darkening, all color leeching out of it. It’ll be a moonless night, Harry thinks, because Louis is inside with him.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ur welcome to come scream at me on my tumblr: rosesau, pls leave a kudos and comment! i'll see u soon <3


	5. you found him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is fionn in this, you ask? he's too young to have met louis at uni. well, our fake blond didn't tweet on july 23 for the 7 year anniversary so he lost his place as louis' best friend. fionn has never let me down and therefore he gets to be louis' friend.
> 
> songs for this chapter, in order of appearance (i suggest making a playlist!!):  
> \- little bird by ed sheeran  
> \- all i want by kodaline  
> \- 3000 miles by emblem3  
> \- too much by all time love  
> \- lost boy by troye sivan  
> \- dive by ed sheeran  
> \- happier by ed sheeran  
> \- kiss me by ed sheeran  
> \- how do you feel by the maine  
> \- don't let me go by harry styles
> 
> i believe there's just one more chapter left now, so i hope u enjoy this one and lemme know what u think! find me on tumblr at rosesau!

[Waking](https://open.spotify.com/track/5DizlXTwJjjwxxqGNChcvO) up after deceiving death feels a little like floating on clouds. Before Harry opens his eyes, he’s aware of a body pressed against his, limbs a tangled mess. He can smell the slight citrusy scent that always means home, can feel the oh so faint beat of Louis’ life thrumming underneath his chest. His face is buried somewhere between Louis’ chest and neck, arms cocooned around him in an embrace that feels more secure that anything Harry has felt in such a long time. It’s not terribly bright in the room, it seems, but that doesn’t exactly mean much, considering Britain isn’t known for its sunny days. The duvet is heavy on top of Harry, as he’s still fully clothed, but the window must be opened because the room feels slightly chilly.

He nestles further into Louis’ warmth, heart and body having been deprived of it for so many days and weeks and months. Years, really. It’s been years since Harry woke up like this. Louis must know Harry’s awake (if he’s woken up yet), because he always used to be able to tell when Harry woke up before him, but he doesn’t say anything and Harry doesn’t do anything to give himself away. Keeps his eyes shut and breathes in Louis’ scent and for once he isn’t _trying_ to breathe; it just happens, naturally. He can breathe again.

Some time passes and then Louis is slowly unwinding his arms from around Harry, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, gently scratching at his scalp, and whispering in the quietest, fondest voice, “I’ll be right back, m’love,” and Harry’s heart might have forgotten what it means to have a steady rhythm, but it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt, this time. Harry lays there, inhaling the pillow that smells like Louis, wraps an arm around it to hug it close to his chest and bury his face in it. There was a time, ages ago, when waking up next to Louis was so frequent that their scents would linger on each other for days to come. He has missed that simple sense of domesticity that always seemed to be constant in his and Louis’ relationship.

Harry’s cheek is still pressed against the mattress, pillow still pressed to his nose, when quiet, familiar footsteps pad down the hall and into the small bedroom. Even with his eyes closed, Harry can pinpoint the exact moment Louis comes to a stop in front of him, lays down next to him. Gentle fingers brush across Harry’s forehead, pushing aside strands of hair. The gesture is so hauntingly familiar it aches and Harry cracks open an eye, seeking out Louis’ face. And there it is – inches away from Harry’s, adoration pouring from those starry eyes, mouth quirked in a smile. “Mornin’, little bird,” Louis hums, thumb brushing under Harry’s eye.

This is dangerous territory. Just because he came running last night doesn't mean Harry has forgotten that Louis left him, doesn't mean that they’re back to being Harry and Louis again in the blink of an eye, doesn't mean Louis gets to call him those names. But Harry’s already made his climb to the top, has already reached the peak, and it'll be a long way down, so really, it isn't so reckless to throw caution to the winds. “Mornin’, blue,” Harry whispers back. Louis’ thumb moves from under his eye and across his cheekbone, light as a feather. Harry savors it, commits the feeling to memory.

“How’re ya feelin’?”  

“Fine,” Harry lies instinctively, and then reconsiders. He isn’t fine, or Louis wouldn’t be here. They both know that much, so he amends to, “Kind of like… free? And tired?”

Louis tugs on a curl, lets it wrap around his finger before setting it free. “D’you wanna take a shower and freshen up? I’ve got breakfast almost ready.”

Harry can’t help it when his eyebrows lift; Louis and cooking is not a good combination, never has been. He regards Louis’ quiet smile cautiously, already wary of the possible disasters that could greet him in the kitchen. “Please, don’t burn the place down,” he says, and his voice almost does sound joking, “I do have a flatmate.” _Used to have two._

“Where is he?” It’s an innocent question, really, a genuine concern, perhaps, but Harry doesn’t have an answer. Or, well, he does, but it’s not one he wants to give. He doesn’t know if he’s willing to admit to Louis that he managed to drive away the only friend he had left. Harry diverts his guilty eyes from Louis’ curious, and Louis must put two and two together, because his next words are, “Why don’t you go wash up and we can talk later?”

Harry doesn’t feel like talking, in all honesty. Last night was lapse in judgment, all of it. What was he thinking? Swallowing a bottle of pills so that the next person to enter the flat would find his dead body and have to clean up the mess? Answering Louis’ call and begging him to come over and hold his scattering pieces together? Falling asleep in the safety of Louis’ arms when he should have been doing his damnedest to stay far away from them? Every single decision made last night was a more colossal mistake than the last and Harry knows he’s going to have to face the music now.

Harry showers. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror when he brushes his teeth, doesn’t want to see those dead eyes from last night again. He just methodically scrubs at his teeth and then gets under the cold spray. He isn’t the type to take cold showers, typically, but it wakes him up, and he needs to be alert if he’s going to be dealing with an inquiring, possibly worried Louis Tomlinson. So he showers, puts on his fluffiest lilac jumper with the softest grey joggers and fuzzy pink socks.

~~The pills have disappeared from the top of the vanity. The two letters are still on the desk, exactly as Harry left them.~~

Harry finds Louis barefoot in the kitchen, setting two plates of what he assumes are pancakes on the table, along with two cups of tea. Nothing is on fire, nothing appears to be severely damaged, and Harry’s apprehension eases a bit. He stays at the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, and watches Louis finish up the teas. “Pancakes?” Harry questions, just because there’s a pang in his chest.

“Peace offering? They’re not burnt, I promise.” Louis holds a plate out for Harry to see and Harry almost smiles.

A lifetime ago, Louis made pancakes for Harry – or, well, attempted to. He set the plates ready at the table before Harry had even woken up, which was a feat in and of itself because Louis is not a morning person and waking up early is essentially out of the question. But that particular morning, he got out of bed before and made pancakes, which, to be completely frank, looked more like a seriously misshapen and discolored liver than any pancakes Harry had ever seen. So, naturally, survival instincts kicked in and Harry pretended to feel ill the moment he realized he was meant to eat the monstrosity Louis had prepared for him.

“My tummy hurts, Lou,” he said, “’m just gonna make some soup, ’s that alright?”

And, of course, Louis never expected Harry to lie to him so easily, never expected Harry to be so deceiving, and let Harry have soup for breakfast. He even fed Harry chocolate because “don’t they have endorphins that are meant to help you feel better?” And Harry loved him, really did, until Harry was ‘feeling better again,’ and Louis brought the pancakes out for lunch and asked Harry to try them because he tried so hard to make them decent. Harry ate a total of four bites, lied and said, “It’s delicious, Lou,” and cuddled into Louis’ side so he wouldn’t be caught in his lie.

Later that day, Louis caught Harry throwing the pancakes in the bin. He broke up with Harry on the spot, shouting, “If you don’t like m’ cooking, then have the guts to fucking say it to me face, you bloody coward!”

And Harry spent the next four days apologizing profusely and begging for forgiveness.

“You’re my little blue,” he said the fourth day, “I didn’t wanna lie, but didn’t wanna make you sad, either, baby. You’re just shit at making food and I don’t mind, really. Gives me an excuse to cook for you loads.” And it took more convincing, more groveling, but in the end, Louis decided he loved Harry just a little bit more than he hated him.

“Don’t lie to me again,” he grumbled while Harry peppered his face with kisses.

And now here Louis stands again, offering Harry pancakes that look at least semi edible and, after only a moment’s hesitation, Harry accepts the plate and folds himself on a chair. Louis sits as well, and when Harry takes his first bite, he’s pleasantly surprised that it actually tastes quite nice. It might not be the best meal he’s ever had, but there is a generous amount of syrup and the pancakes are soft enough to be decent. “It’s nice,” he tells Louis around a bite.

“Yeah?” When Harry hums in agreement, Louis says, “my friend Fionn taught me a while ago, when I kept burnin’ them.”

 _Fionn._ Harry’s never met him, never spoken to him or interacted with him in any way, but the name still brings a face to mind; dark hair, brown eyes (maybe), pale skin, and nothing quite extraordinary. Harry knows the boy from lurking on Louis’ social media too much. See, Fionn and Louis lived – live? – together, and traveled through Europe and Africa together. Louis’ instagram is cluttered with photos of him and Fionn from their trips, and they're good friends, Harry knows, but that's the extent of his knowledge. By the time Louis and Fionn became friends, Harry and Louis were no longer speaking – not that Harry had any say in that.

They finish their breakfast in silence, a kind of silence that never used to hang between them. Harry keeps his eyes trained on his food, though he's itching to get lost in Louis’. Last night he spent wrapped in Louis’ arms and he wants nothing more than to return to that. Sitting here in this dimly lit kitchen, wearing his bright yellow jumper from last night, Louis looks every bit like the sun, emitting warmth, but the thing is, he’s always been the moon for Harry – always shining a light during the darkest nights. Louis will always be the moon.

“[What](https://open.spotify.com/track/2PwXOevGUSkU8qaYZjgLq2) happened last night?” Louis asks when he’s drying the plates. Harry’s still sat at the table.

 _What happened last night?_ Louis knows about him going to the bridge, knows about his darkest thoughts, so he isn't sure what he's supposed to say. He can't lie, really, can't beat around the bush for once. This isn't his mum, who always waits for him to be ready to talk about things. This is Louis – incessant, pestering, stubborn Louis – who never gives up. So the best course of action is to turn the tide.

“Why did you come last night?” Harry asks, eyes still downcast. It's a genuine question. He doesn't know why Louis was calling him, why he agreed to come take care of Harry, why he spent the night holding him. Last Harry heard, Louis wanted nothing to do with him – or, well, didn't hear, considering he didn't hear _anything_ from Louis, but he deduced as much.

“You asked me to come,” Louis responds, as if the answer is oh so obvious, as if Harry questioning it is absurd. Louis crouches in front of Harry’s chair, fingers brushing against the back of Harry’s hand. “You might be angry with me, and we might be on shaky grounds, but you’ll always be my baby. I’ll always come when you call me.”

 _“Why?”_ Harry tries to ignore the pang in his chest, the tears that prick at his eyes suddenly. _God,_ he needs to fucking stop crying already. “I used to call you all the time and you never answered. You just stopped fucking answering, Lou, so why was last night any different? Why did you call me and why did you come?”

“Because you needed me, love.”

 _“I always need you!”_ It's a confession, yes, and they have admitted far more intimate desires to one another, but this still claws at Harry's heart till it's a shredded mess. He looks at Louis now, who's still kneeling in front of Harry, and Harry's fingers reach up of their own volition to brush along the length of Louis’ eyebrow, pushing back his hair. Those pretty blue eyes don't have a single star in them. “Don’t you get it? I need you, after all this goddamn time, I still need you to help me breathe, but you just – you just fucking left like we didn't promise to spend eternity with each other.”

Louis takes Harry’s hand in his and links their fingers together on top of Harry’s thigh. “Let me explain, H, I didn’t –”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, blinks back the treacherous tears that always seem to haunt him when he talks to Louis, when he thinks back to the time he spent without Louis. He squeezes their fingers tighter for a moment. “You want to explain? You can answer my questions.”

“Okay, but Harry –”

“No, you don’t – you don’t get to just _talk_ , you don’t get to barge into my life after two years of radio silence and just _talk_ , that’s not how this works. You get to listen and you get to answer questions, that’s it. If that doesn’t seem fair, then you can leave now.” ~~_Please please please don’t ever leave._~~

Louis’ thumb rubs tiny circles on Harry’s knuckle. “I’m not leaving,” he promises, and Harry’s heart sags in relief.

Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand, and Harry doesn’t pull away. Louis is a tether, see, he’s the one keeping Harry afloat when everything else is set to drown him. But now that he has a chance to interrogate Louis, to ask him every single question that’s been tormenting him for two years, Harry doesn’t know where to begin. He absolutely has no idea what he wants to know first, what’s going to hurt him the least.

“Where do you live now?” he asks finally, because he truly doesn’t know.

“Back in London,” Louis answers immediately, voice quiet. “America was nice, and the semester in New York was sick, but it just – it didn’t feel like home, ever.” Yes, Harry knows Louis spent time in the states for a bit; for what, thought, he doesn’t know. “All the places were incredible, and I got some really amazing shots, but being so far away from everyone isn’t for me.” Harry’s staring at Louis, cataloguing every furrowed brow and every bite of the lip for later, and Louis’ staring at their fingers still twined together. “This is home, y’know? I love it here.”

“What about the rest of Europe? And [Africa](https://open.spotify.com/track/3OqUKwtBIuzdLrCY2hjEW4)?”

That’s what Louis did – traveled around Europe and Africa at the expense of his university, taking photographs in different countries of different things, primarily wildlife in Africa and architecture in Europe. Harry knows because quite a few of the said photographs are posted on his Instagram, Fionn included in a fair few of them.

“Both were mind-blowing, H, I wish I could’ve taken you with me,” Louis smiles a little wistfully, the crinkles by his eyes just barely there, “There were so many times I wished you were with me, so many things I wished we could experience together. That was the plan, you know?” He looks up then, peeks at Harry from under his lashes, the stars in his eyes hidden behind a sea of grey clouds. “Wanted to see the world with you.”

“What changed, then?” Harry asks desperately, his heart in his throat. He isn’t fast enough to stop the tears that fall down his cheeks and onto Louis’ hand. Louis reaches up to brush his thumb across Harry’s cheek, under his eye, all the while whispering, “Don’t cry, my love,” and Harry can’t take it. His heart feels like it’s carrying the weight of the entire world. “When did I stop being enough?”

“Never,” Louis says it so earnestly, so painfully, his voice steady in spite of the slight tremble his hand now has. “You will always be enough.”

Harry wants to believe the words, wants to be able to believe that he was enough for Louis, but he clearly wasn’t. _Something_ drove Louis away, and it could very well have been Harry’s fault. Everything else always seems to be. “Then what?  What the fuck happened, Lou?”

“I thought – it’s stupid, fuck, I know it’ll sound so fucking stupid now, Harry, I know that, but please try to understand it was ages ago and I was a stupid kid, and I just… made some really stupid calls.” Louis’ stood up now, pacing in front of Harry, hand rubbing the back of his neck and running through his already tousled hair. Harry waits, impatiently, for Louis to spit out whatever it is. “When I was in London first and settling into the whole uni scene, it wasn’t really something I thought about – you and I being apart. I just, I was so secure in us?” There’s a humorless chuckle and it almost sounds nervous. Harry doesn’t like the direction this is headed in, doesn’t like the red flags being raised with each word. “You were the only one I ever wanted, the only one I’d really, properly been with, so I was just so bloody sure of us. Then more and more time passed, my uni friends would hook up with someone new every other week, and eventually they started asking me why I wouldn’t – why I’m so certain in a relationship with someone who doesn’t know anything else.”

There’s a dull ache in Harry’s chest that flares into a searing pain at those words and he digs his nails into his palm, digs them in so fucking hard he hopes they break through the skin so he can focus on that pain, instead. _Breathe, Harry, just fucking[breathe](https://open.spotify.com/track/1lAErqCg84I1N4eVgUyDHU). _

“You always knew how I felt about you,” he’s able to whisper and he hopes Louis hears him. He tries to remember any occasion where he might have been unclear about his commitment to Louis and comes up blank. He _always_ made sure Louis knew he was in it until the end.

“I know,” Louis huffs, frustration clear, and Harry wants to snap at him that he doesn’t particularly care for the tone, but he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Harry or Louis himself. “God, I never doubted your feelings, I just – started wondering if I was enough. You didn’t – fuck, H, you were only _sixteen_ when I started uni and watching everyone around me, I started questioning if you would still love me, want _me_ , if you had other options.” Harry isn’t hearing him right, Louis isn’t fucking saying this, no, he isn’t – “You only knew me and I – god, I didn’t want to hold you back. So I just, like, fuck, I slowly distanced myself and stopped responding to your texts and calls and –”

“How dare you?” Hot, angry tears blur Harry’s vision and he blindly swipes at them. He’s standing up now, too, a meter away from Louis, hands balled into fists at his sides. “How fucking _dare_ you?”

“Harry, listen –”

 _“No,_ you fucking listen, you bloody prick!” Harry’s crying again, for fuck’s sake, he’s always fucking crying. He jabs a finger into Louis’ chest, makes him stumble back a step. “You don’t get to fucking decide what – _who_ – I want. What? You thought you’d pack your bags, move halfway across the country, stop talking to me, and what? I’d forget about you? I’d just… move on?” He grips his hair with both hands, resists the urge to rip it all out of his scalp. His heart is thundering in his chest, and for the first time in so long, it’s not because of a crushing sadness or guilt. For the first time in ages, Harry feels nothing but blinding rage. “Who the fuck do you think you _are,_ making decisions for me? Who the _fuck_ gave you that right? I spent months – _years_ – trying to figure out what the fuck I did to drive you away and this was it? That I loved you too much when I was too young? Fuck you, Louis Tomlinson. Fuck you.”

“I wasn’t trying – I didn’t – fuck, I just didn’t want you to have to settle when you didn’t know anything besides me.”

“Shut the fuck up, Louis, just – stop fucking talking. You think I was _settling_ with you? Fuck you.” Harry is seething. His weary, battered heart is pounding much too hard and fast against his ribs, each beat more painful than the last. His mind is a red haze of the last two years spent without Louis. “I made wedding plans with you. You laid with me in your _fucking_ arms, you let me go on and on about the flowers I wanted at our wedding. I told you I want everyone to have tiny silver boxes that they open when we say _I do,_  so that there’s butterflies flittering about when we kiss.” Harry remembers those quiet conversations, promises whispered into each other’s skin. “I even told my mum. I told her I want her to walk me down the aisle when I marry you and do you know what she did? She didn’t fucking tell me I’m too young to know who I want to marry, Louis. Because she knew, goddamnit, everyone fucking knew you would always be the only one for me. I wasn’t fucking settling and fuck you for making that choice for me.”

Louis’ jaw is slack, his cheeks streaked with tears. Good. Let him fucking cry. Harry would never intentionally hurt Louis, but, god, in this moment, he wants Louis to feel even just an inkling of the pain he’s felt. “That’s just it, [love](https://open.spotify.com/track/3KV9J5y3HDHKTOtjJtHwqi). You were making wedding plans when you were fucking seventeen years old. People fantasize about weddings at that age, they don’t bloody well plan them out to the last detail.”

“Well, I did.” His voice fucking crumbles and he hates himself for it, hates Louis for questioning his sincerity. “If that scared you, if it was too much for you and you wanted distance, you could’ve fucking asked me. You _should_ have talked to me, instead of taking it upon yourself and thinking you know what I want.”

“Would that have worked?” Louis asks. Despite Harry’s yelling, Louis’ voice has stayed quiet this whole time. That's somehow worse than him shouting back.“Would you have let me walk away? I know you, Harry, I know you’re stubborn and I know you would’ve fought me.”

“You’re damn right I would have!” His hands are itching to hit something, break something, but he keeps them balled tightly at his sides. “I would have fought _for_ you, I would have tried my goddamned hardest to keep you by my side, but if you didn’t want me, then I wouldn’t have fought _with_ you. Christ, Louis,” his voice breaks a million times on a sob, “there’s a bloody difference. I’d never force you to be with me if you didn’t want me.”

Suddenly, Louis’s there, crowding Harry’s personal space and cradling his face in both hands. He thumbs away the angry tears, and Harry wants to step away, wants to tell Louis to fuck right off, but he loves this boy just a little more than he hates him. “I will never not want you,” Louis murmurs, breath mingling with Harry’s, “don’t ever think that, love, don’t _ever_ think any less of yourself because of something stupid I did.”

“How do I [know](https://open.spotify.com/track/51ChrwmUPDJvedPQnIU8Ls)  that?” Harry pulls Louis’ hands away from his face and dropping them feels a little bit like stomping on his heart. “While you were thinking wedding planning at seventeen is excessive, I was here staring at that little pink piece of paper, wishing with all my heart that you would come back.” He can feel his lips wobbling, can feel his eyes well up with tears, so he falls. He falls into Louis and allows Louis to hold him together. “Zayn made me go on a date once,” he mumbles into Louis’ jumper, “it was a terrible idea because it was Zayn’s idea and because I didn’t wanna go on a date with anyone but you.” Louis holds him tighter. “Her name was Crystal and she was lovely, honestly. She studies law, I think, and she said she was flattered that I chose her to be my rebound.” The memory tugs a fond smile at Harry’s lips, but he doesn’t quite succeed. He really did like the girl. “She wasn’t upset, though – said I was her rebound, too. So, instead of getting to know each other, I told her about you and she told me about her ex-girlfriend. I told her to stick to girls because boys are too dramatic.” That gets a quiet laugh from Louis and Harry’s heart feels a little lighter. “I got home that night and stared at the little pink sticky and wrote to you, begged you to come back to me because I didn’t want anyone else, would never want anyone [else](https://open.spotify.com/track/2RttW7RAu5nOAfq6YFvApB).” He pulls his head back to look at Louis. “And now you’re telling me you thought those promises were meant to be a fantasy?”

Louis brings a hand to Harry’s neck, thumb moving across his jaw. Harry closes his eyes and tries to forget for a moment the situation they’re in. Instead, he tries to imagine himself two years ago, standing in Louis’ embrace countless times just like this, waiting for a kiss. It hurts, it really does fucking hurt, thinking of seventeen years old Harry finding out that the boy holding him and promising him the world didn’t mean it genuinely, wasn’t sincere in his intentions. Still, Harry leans into Louis’ touch, because no matter how much Louis hurts him, no matter how badly Louis ruins him, Harry will always come back to Louis. There’s a reason he believes in soulmates and it’s the tug at his heart every time he thinks of Louis. Perhaps their hearts are physically connected by some invisible force, one that only Harry can feel because he gave it to Louis at the tender age of sixteen.

“Harry, you silly boy,” Louis sighs, softly, and the words are so fond, so affectionate, Harry’s eyes blink open. Louis is smiling, albeit longingly, and pulling out his phone from his pocket. He lets go of Harry completely, both hands busying themselves in taking off the case from Louis’ phone. Harry watches, confused and curious, as Louis says, “Marrying you one day was my biggest dream, my love. Wanted so badly to give you a wedding unlike any other. Wanted to give you your perfect day with butterflies and calla lilies and red tulips.” The case is off and Louis’ hands are left with a tiny pink square piece of paper, creases evident from the number of times it’s been folded and unfolded. Harry’s heart crashes against its cage, desperate for more room to beat. Louis unfolds the paper, hands shaking, and his starry eyes don’t waver from Harry’s when he whispers, “I, Louis Tomlinson, promise to choose you, Harry Styles, above everything else, always and forever.” Louis’ hands rest on the small of Harry’s waist, their toes flush against each other’s. “I thought – stupidly, I admit – that I was choosing you, your _happiness_ , by distancing myself and giving you a chance to experience other people without me.” Harry isn’t breathing he isn’t – “Every day I was gone, you were right there with me. No matter what happens, no matter how much you might hate me at the time, you’ll always be in my heart, sweets. It’s always you.”

There’s tears in Louis’ eyes, on Harry’s cheeks, and when Louis stands on his tippy toes to kiss them away, so gently, Harry’s pulse goes astray.

“You haven’t the slightest idea how much I value that promise to you, Harry Styles. I don’t need a piece of paper from the city hall to tell me I’m yours, that I’m meant to take care of you always, because there will never be anyone else for me. You’re the one that I want at the end of every day.”

It’s too much. It’s too fucking much for Harry’s heart to process. He’s certain if Louis wasn’t holding him, his knees would have given out on him by now. This is – this is everything he has been wanting to hear for two years and now that he’s heard it, now that Louis’ confessions and declarations hang in the air between them, Harry can hardly fucking breathe. He staggers back a step, desperate for support that isn’t Louis, and his hand hits the dining table. He grabs onto it, hears Louis whisper quiet _breathe, love’s_ into his ear as he hops on. He isn’t – this is why he wanted to talk to his mum, wanted to get her advice. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s meant to say, what he’s meant to do. He doesn’t even know if Louis has _asked_ him to do anything; just because he explained himself doesn’t mean he wants to get back together with Harry. Hell, Harry doesn’t know if they _can_ get back together, considering they never actually broke up. _Technically,_ Louis is still his boyfriend – of four years.

“Lou – I can’t” He can’t _breathe._

Louis puts a hand on his shoulder, on his cheek, and his voice is so quiet that the words almost get lost between them when he tells Harry, “Look at me, love.” And, _god,_ it takes a colossal amount of effort for Harry to open his eyes and tilt his head back just a little to look at Louis, who’s now stood in between Harry’s legs, gazing down at him. “You don’t have to do anything,” Louis assures him, thumb grazing his cheek, “you wanted an explanation and that’s all I gave you. I didn’t – I wasn’t expecting the circumstances to be so shit, but I don’t – I _swear_ I’m not going to ask anything of you that you don’t want to give – that you aren’t ready to give.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry disagrees, head shaking, “you’re wrong, Louis, I _do_ have to do things. I was ready to die last night and I can’t – I don’t know how I’m gonna get back on my feet again.”

“You already are,” Louis insists quietly, proudly, “you’re still here.”

“Because of _you._ I was ready to die and then I saw your name on my phone and a part of me thought, _I wanna live a little longer for you,_ and that’s why I’m here. You’re the one that always saves me and I can’t – the thought of doing this without you now scares the shit out of me.” He’s admitting too much, perhaps, making himself too vulnerable, but Harry has come to terms with the understanding that he will endure whatever pain he has to just to keep Louis close to him for just a little longer. He closes his hand around Louis’ jumper, pulls him in a little closer. “It's not – you’re not forcing me; it’s just that I don’t know what I _should_ do. My heart will always beat for you, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to listen to it.” God, _god,_ he’s setting himself up for a long and painful fall. He takes one of Louis’ hands and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Feel that? It’s for you.”

Louis says nothing, just gazes at Harry and, fuck, it’s ridiculous that Harry manages to blush at a moment like this.

“Do you know how much I’ve missed you?” Harry wonders out loud, not expecting an answer. Louis’ hand stills in his curls. “I cried myself to sleep missing you and I woke up missing you. I saw you everywhere, every time I saw your little siblings and every time I listened to certain songs. I missed you when I made breakfast and you were never there.” Harry hooks his ankles around the back of Louis’ knees to keep him in place. “I’d stare up at the plastic stars on my ceiling and miss the stars in your eyes.” He falls forward, forehead finding Louis’ chest, heart heavy and stuttering in his own. “I missed your sleepy cuddles, the way you kissed me like I was your favorite person.” He presses a kiss to Louis’ clothed chest and hopes Louis doesn’t feel it. “You’re standing right in front of me, practically in my arms, and I still miss you.”

“H –”

“Listen,” Harry tugs him infinitesimally closer, and his voice is different from the last time he yelled at Louis to listen just minutes ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed. “I’m so fucking scared, Lou. I’m terrified of literally everything. I’m scared to see Mum again, the idea of seeing Gemma absolutely petrifies me,” he confesses, because he _knows_ his sister knows about his antics by now, knows that she’ll skin him alive. “But the most terrifying thing is thinking about doing any of that without you. I want you in my life, and that scares the shit out of me, too, because I have no way of knowing if you’ll stay with me, but I’m missing half of me when we’re apart and I just – everything was so much harder without you, and now you’re here, and I honestly don’t feel a thing. The only thing that hurts is the prospect of losing you again.”

Harry has never been so defenceless in his life, not for anyone, and it’s fitting, he thinks, that it be for Louis’ eyes only.

“‘M not going anywhere, angel, I promise.” Louis takes half a step back to look at Harry. “I know you have essentially no reason to believe me – I haven’t given you one – but I’m staying for as long as you’ll have me.” He wraps his finger around a loose curl and tugs at it gently. “Never wanted to leave you before and don’t wanna do it now. Especially not now, Jesus, Harry, I couldn’t stay away this time even if I tried. I’m not – I can’t lose you.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he can say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, not last night.”

“Don’t be sorry, pup, I just –” Harry watches as Louis’ eyes brighten, can pinpoint the exact moment in time when the blue in them sparkles with the light of every star in the cosmos, “I love you so much and I don’t ever want to lose you.”

And the words are so soft, so _quiet_ , Harry thinks this must be what it feels like when a rosebud finally blossoms.

Harry arches his back slightly, leans up just the tiniest bit so his nose brushes Louis’. “Say it again,” he breathes, eyes burning and heart racing and fuck. The smile on Louis’ face cracks Harry’s spine in half and fills it up with sunshine. “Say it again, Lou.” Harry’s pleading, begging, and he doesn’t care because being loved by Louis is all he wants. He wants it back – the love they had when they were eighteen. God, it was so good. It was the kind of love they write books about, the kind of love that becomes timeless for the rest of the world. Harry wants it again, wants to fall deeper in love with this boy who holds Harry’s mangled heart in the palm of his dainty hand.

“I love you, Harry Styles.” The words float in the hushed silence between them. “Every day, I love you. Gonna keep loving you until the day I die.”

Harry’s eyes are closed now, cheeks pink from the attention he’s been craving for two years, and he leans into Louis, just a little bit more, breathes in the same air Louis does. The words are barely a whisper when he murmurs, “[Kiss me](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Tel1fmuCxEFV6wBLXsEdk),” and he feels Louis’ breath hitch. Harry clings to his jumper, doesn’t open his eyes. “Don’t – don’t say I’m being rash or – or I don’t know if I want this or I’ll regret this. You can say no for _you,_ but let me have this, please. I have been _dying_ to kiss you for two years.”

Louis’ hands frame Harry’s face, thumbs pressing into the apples of his cheeks. “I’m so fucking sorry for all the pain I caused you, baby,” is what Harry hears and he has never heard such soft words to carry quite so much anguish in them, and he wishes, _god,_ he wishes he could see Louis’ face right, wishes he could burn it to memory, but he’s bloody terrified of Louis saying no to him and he’s – tasting pancakes and syrup and Louis’ lips on his own.

He thinks he hears the world sigh softly around them.

This kiss is so unbearably soft, so affectionate, so _tender,_ it renders Harry breathless, has him bunching his hands in Louis’ jumper before he forgets everything. All the pain, all the sleepless nights, none of it seems to matter because Louis is kissing him and Harry imagines this is what it must be like when a flower unfurls its petals. This kiss is a whispered confession in a howling wind, water droplets falling precariously from wet leaves after a rainy day. This kiss is reverent and delicate and tomorrow may not come again, but Harry won't complain, because this – this is everything.

Louis’ mouth against Harry’s is deceptively soft, so bloody cautious, his hands still holding Harry’s face like he’s the most precious thing in the world and Harry – Harry can’t contain the tiny sob that breaks free. Louis presses a small kiss to the corner of Harry’s lips and Harry tugs him in closer, scooting forward to the edge of the table. “Don’t cry, my love,” Louis whispers, kisses the tears away, and Harry opens his eyes then, meets Louis’ shiny ones. His lip wobbles when he looks at Louis – his Louis, standing in front of him again, pouring so much affection into a kiss for him. And Harry can’t help, can’t help the emotion that overcomes him. He cups Louis’ face in his hands this time, craning his neck up to pepper kisses to Louis’ cheeks and forehead and his nose and his chin and the little bit of skin between his eyebrows and everywhere he can reach. “Don’t be sad,” Louis pleads.

“Not sad,” Harry reassures him, honestly. He isn’t sad. For once, finally, he isn't sad. “I’m happy.” And Louis’ eyes burn bright – fuck, they’re brighter than every moon and sun and star and supernova and the whole fucking universe put together and it’s a shame that human memory is a fallible thing because this – this is a sight he never wants to forget. “I missed my sunshine,” he presses into the shell of Louis’ ear, “thank you. For coming back to me.”

_I will love you until every star in the galaxy burns out and the universe collapses in on itself. Perhaps, even after that, if souls linger around, mine will find yours._

“Thank you,” Louis nuzzles into Harry’s hair, “not just for me, but for Mum. Thanks for making her happy once more.” And there’s such a tangible sadness in his voice, like he knows she doesn’t have a lot of time to be happy about much more, and it tears at Harry’s heart.

“Don’t talk like that,” he admonishes Louis, pulling him closer closer closer and pressing his cheek into his jumper, “she’ll be okay. Life’s thrown a lot of shit her way and she’s still here. She’ll be okay, Lou.”

“I hope so.”

*

They’re on the mattress, limbs tangled, Harry’s head resting on Louis’ chest, Louis talking quietly on the phone after having told Harry the events that unfolded last night: when Anne found out about Harry leaving the hospital so abruptly, she immediately rang Louis, who was in the middle of finishing a run to the supermarket. She told him about Harry going to see her, about him taking the blame for everything, and how _worried_ she was that he would hurt himself. And since Liam wasn’t around to keep an eye on him, she could only ask Louis, and Louis raced to get to the house – only to find it empty, no sign of Harry anywhere. He was halfway to the flat when Harry finally, _finally_ answered his call and spared Lous an aneurysm.

He talked to Anne this morning while Harry was still sleeping, told her he’s alright, and now he’s on the phone with her again. Harry doesn’t want to speak to her yet, isn’t ready to hear the disappointment and the pain in her voice, yet again caused by him. So he’s pretending to sleep and it’s not difficult. One of Louis’ arms is wrapped around Harry’s waist, his hand in Harry’s hair, and it would be so easy to just fall asleep, but Harry’s listening. Maybe it’s an invasion of privacy, but Harry can’t not listen.

“He seems better,” Louis is saying, “I know he isn’t – he’s not, like, okay, but he isn’t the mess I found him last night.” There’s a pause, during which Louis drops the most delicate of kisses to the crown of Harry’s head, fingers still gently scratching at his scalp. “He needs help, Anne. ’M gonna try and talk to him, I’ll do me best, but I’m not – I don’t know how to help him. He’s hurting and I don’t know how to take away so much pain.” Louis’ quiet again, presumably listening to Harry’s mother. Harry counts to the rhythm of Louis’ heart, finding comfort in its steady beat. “Yes... I did... He’s not upset with me anymore, I don’t think, but I’ll let him tell you the specifics when he wants.” Louis kisses his forehead once more, and his fingers slip under the hem of Harry’s jumper at the same time, thumb softly running across Harry’s skin.

Harry’s heart stutters and fails.

“I do, I love him so much, I’ll stay with him for as long as he wants me. I can’t – I don’t think I have it in me to leave him again, even for his own good.” And then: “I’ll take him today, if he wants... Thank you...” Then there’s quiet goodbyes, promises to visit the hospital soon, and the room is quiet.

Both of Louis’ arms are wrapped around Harry. Harry doesn't particularly want to think about Louis’ words, doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is Louis just promised Anne they would talk about, so he continues to lay there, breathes in the lemony scent of Louis. It feels so good to be held again, to be held by this boy who has held Harry’s heart in his palm for so long. Harry wants to turns his head upward, wants to leave kisses along the underside of Louis’ jaw, but he resists. Louis holds him tighter when he says, “I’m so sorry, little bird,” and the words are nothing more than an exhale, but somehow still manage to ravage Harry’s heart.

One of Louis’ arm disappears and Harry hears the barely audible tapping of a phone screen and then Louis’ voice whispering, “Hi, Mum,” and this is a conversation Harry knows he isn’t entitled to listen to, but still, he can’t bring himself to be a decent person and alert Louis. He just silently stays in the safety of the arms that mean home. “I’m alright and he’s alright, too, how’re you feelin’?” A pause. “Don’t fret, Mum, I’ve got him for now.” Lips softly brush Harry’s brow. “I need advice, though, I think I made a mistake.” Harry’s heart clenches and ~~_please, please don’t say what I think you’re about to say please_~~ – “I kissed him, Mum,” and, _fuck,_ Harry thinks this is where he dies, this is what will kill him finally because Louis still considers him a mistake and – “I think... he always was so good to me, and I feel like I took advantage today. Like, fuck, he just needs a friend and I only meant to explain myself and apologize, but then he was – he was _begging_ me, Mum, and I just – I told him no once before and I couldn’t do that today and I feel like I crossed a boundary.” There’s an ache so sharp in Harry’s chest, and his heart might quite possibly be bleeding, because hearing this _hurts._ “What do I _do,_ Mum? How do I help him?” The next pause is longer, heavier, and Harry’s chest might just beat out of its cage. “I will... he means more than the world, Mum, I just – I can’t fail him this time.”

And Harry can’t help it then. The arms that’s slung over Louis’ tummy tightens, he presses himself closer to Louis even though there is no closer, and sighs Louis’ name, just barely audible, and Louis is saying goodbye to his mum.

“Harry?” It’s a tentative whisper, and Harry hums in response, revelling in the touch when Louis’ now free hand comes to brush his cheek. “Sleep well, sweets?” Harry makes a noncommittal sound of agreement again, even though it’s a lie, but he can’t say that to Louis. Not right now.

Harry lifts his head a little and cranes his neck back to look at Louis, who’s already tilted his to gaze down at Harry. There’s silver in Louis’ eyes, silver bright like the stars adorning a night sky and silver dancing like it’s exploding out of a nebula, and Louis is a universe in and of himself, Harry thinks, and he doesn’t mind one bit that he’s lost in it. He hopes Louis can read that in his eyes because, right now, Harry’s at a loss for words. He wants to kiss Louis again, wants to pour every confession and every promise into Louis, but he can’t. He _can’t_ kiss Louis if Louis thinks he’s taking advantage of Harry’s vulnerability.

“Can we talk?” Louis asks, voice hesitant, thumb still running across the apple of Harry’s cheek. And, no, Harry doesn’t want to talk, is dreading this talk because he doesn’t talk about this with anyone. But this is Louis. Louis, who will not stop until he gets at least some answers. Louis, who hit pause on his life to save Harry’s. Louis, who deserves an explanation of some sort. So, palms clammy and heart faint, Harry nods. “What happened last night?” Louis’ talking softly, the way people address a wounded stray animal, expecting it to lash out. It’s the same question he asked Harry a few hours ago, the one Harry oh so successfully dodged then, but now he doesn’t have a distraction.

“I need you to know understand,” he begins, ignoring the tremor in his voice, “that it isn’t your fault – any of it. I, uh, it’s not pretty, any of it, but just... don’t blame yourself, okay?” He waits for Louis’ nod of understanding before sitting up.

This is uncharted territory Harry’s about to dive into uncharted territory. Never before has he really talked about this with anyone else, never before has he properly discussed it. It was always there, the elephant in the room, but Harry never let anyone go on about it, not in the context of his and Louis’ relationship. It was only Zayn who got to hear him talk once.

~~And now he’s dead.~~

Harry’s heart is in his throat, eyes burning with fantom tears, and he picks at the sleeve of his jumper while he talks. He can’t face Louis at the moment, take stomach whatever his reaction will be.

“[When](https://open.spotify.com/track/2RttW7RAu5nOAfq6YFvApB) you left, or, like, when you just... stopped returning my calls – when you just stopped talking to me at all, I, like... it was _hard,_ Louis, not knowing what the fuck I did to make you leave.” _God,_ what is air? Harry struggles to breathe, to keep his heart from fucking bursting at the goddamn seams. Louis’ silent behind him; Harry can feel those celestial eyes boring into his back. “And it never got better.” He turns around then, has to turn around and take Louis’ hand in his, link their fingers together. Louis’ touch is an anchor keeping him afloat, and somewhere in the back of his mind Harry dimly thinks that Louis is both the wish and the shooting star, and he’s so damn lucky he gets to keep both. “’M not trying to make you feel bad, honest,” he swipes a thumb under Louis’ wet eyes, straining to keep his voice steady, “I just – last night doesn’t exist in a world where you didn’t leave.” And, fuck, Harry doesn’t realize how cruel the words sound, how fucking accusatory they sound until they’re hovering in the dead silence between them.

Harry pulls Louis’ hands into his lap, tracing over the lines on his palms. They’re so soft, his hands, and so unlike Harry’s. Harry’s fingers are long and lean, his nails trimmed neatly; Louis’ fingers, though, are shorter, his nails bitten in a million places, his cuticles ruined from picking at them so much. It’s something Harry used to nag Louis about all the time to get him to stop. He clings to Louis’ hands like they’re armor against his own words.

“Zayn was there,” Harry almost chokes on his best friend’s name, voice getting strangled somewhere in his throat, “he tried so fucking hard to get me to move on. He knew, fuck, Lou, he _knew_ it wouldn’t be easy, knew it would be near impossible, but he still fucking tried. Said he hated seeing me like that, losing sleep over you and fucking myself over every day hoping to hear from you.” There’s something stabbing at Harry’s chest, and he tries to blink back the sudden tears, but instead they fall on Louis’ open palms in Harry’s hands. “He set me up on a few dates, and I told him it wouldn’t work, any of it, but he still did it. It’s what best mates do, he said.” It’s getting hotter in the room, his jumper is choking him, and Louis has clasped their both of their hands together. “And, like, I came to terms with it, you know? Told myself that you really didn’t give a shit, that you weren’t coming back. And, eventually, everything kind of lost its meaning.”

[Depression](https://open.spotify.com/track/6AH3IbS61PiabZYKVBqKAk) isn’t pretty, is the thing. It’s not a sad aesthetic that’s portrayed in films where the protagonist is miraculously cured after finding the love of their life, or finding purpose and meaning in something. Depression isn’t wilted roses and waxing poetic about the moon in the middle of the fucking night. Depression isn’t staring out the window and tracing raindrops with your eyes. It isn’t walking alone at night with the wind whistling through your hair, though Harry certainly did that. Depression isn’t grey clothes and pretentious tattoos and melancholy songs and a monochrome aesthetic. Depression is ugly. It’s sleepless nights and racing thoughts that never seem to find their fucking destination. Depression is losing all interest in things he once found joy in, things that kept him centered. It’s his energy depleting and sleep cycle getting fucked over day in and day out. Depression is forgetting to eat for days unless someone reminded him, presented him with a meal. It’s days spent without showering and distancing himself from his friends. It’s pretending nothing is wrong, because no one can fucking _see_ what’s wrong. Depression is an inconvenience that doesn’t ever follow any goddamn pattern and just becomes a constant pain in the arse.

“I was just, like, going through the motions, in a way,” Harry’s mumbling, now, almost, trying to drown out the words somehow. “Everything was shit, and I tried, sometimes, to care more, because I could see it was upsetting Mum, and it wasn’t fair to Zayn or Liam always trying to take care of me, always walking on eggshells. They deserved better, you know?” It was horrible, fucking horrible, knowing how much he was stressing everyone out. “And then –” If the earth were to open up and swallow him whole, Harry wouldn’t utter a single complaint. Louis’ thumb brushes back and forth across Harry’s pulsepoint. “One night, I dragged Zayn out to drink with me.” Harry bites his lip hard enough to taste blood and the dull ache of that is a welcome distraction from the memory of that night.

He can picture it: begging Zayn to join him, promising a sickly Liam they’d be back in just a few hours, making soup for Liam and setting it on the coffee table in front of the sofa where Liam was situated. He remembers the red shirt Zayn wore that night – it was Harry’s – and he remembers dancing with Zayn as they progressively got more drunk.

“We got absolutely plastered, Louis,” Harry whispers, words akin to a sinful confession. “I just – I missed you. So much. And I was trying to forget, would’ve done anything then to forget, because missing you hurt so much. But then someone kissed me and he looked so much like you – had blue eyes and hair like yours and it – I fucking ran.” Harry sniffs, tears shamelessly running down his cheeks. “We could barely stand straight without support and I fucking dragged Zayn to the roof with me because I was panicking.” _You killed him you killed him you killed him._ “He fell off the roof because I took him there, because I didn’t fucking hang on to him. I just – I literally let him slip through my bloody fingers.” A sob shakes Harry. “My best friend is dead because of me.”

Harry’s crying, quiet sobs breaking through his lips, and then Louis’ hands are on his face, wiping at the tears. “Baby,” he whispering, voice breaking, but Harry can barely listen. “You didn’t kill him, love, that’s not on you.”

He meets Louis’ eyes then, sees the stars in them drowning. “Everyone keeps saying that, but they’re wrong. If I hadn’t taken him up there, if I hadn’t – if I’d held on, he’d still be here.”

“No, H –”

Harry doesn’t listen to him, doesn’t let him talk. “It feels _shit_ , knowing he isn’t around anymore because of me. And then, fuck, Louis, I just – I couldn’t fucking look anyone in the eye. I took so much away from so many people. I _ruined_ Zayn’s family, I killed the love of Liam’s life, and I don’t want to fucking live. I don’t deserve to. Do you know what I said to Robin, in front of my mum?” He can see Louis’ shoulders shaking silently, can see the tears make their way down his cheeks. “I said it’s better if little sister doesn’t come into this world because I was angry at Robin after he was a prick about my sexuality.” Louis pulls Harry onto his lap and Harry doesn’t resist, lets Louis wrap both arms around his waist. “And she almost died before even being born. She’s in the bloody NICU right now and you can’t tell me what I said had nothing to do with that.”

“It doesn’t, baby, it doesn’t.”

“Last night I wanted it to end.”

They cling to each other, Louis’ arms around the small of Harry’s waist and Harry’s wound around Louis’ neck, face buried in Louis’ neck. This feels like a pivotal moment. 

This feels like rebuilding a house from a broken home.

“Last night I said goodbye.” He feels lips press to his neck and it’s his undoing. “I said goodbye to you, Louis, I need –” Harry disentangles himself from Louis, crawls off the mattress and to his desk, where he stays on the floor but the pulls the two letters from last night into his lap. “I said goodbye.”

Louis watches him from the mattress, lips pulled between his teeth and eyes red.

 _“[Louis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hTOAo_bfeg) Tomlinson, I have loved you until my dying breath,” _ Harry reads, hands and voice fucking trembling. He hears the broken sob that escapes Louis, feels it rip through his chest. _“I wish, just a little bit, that you were here so I could kiss you one last time and tell you I love you despite all the pain you’ve caused me because I’m sitting on the edge of life and death and I want nothing more than to see you one more time. I’m leaving my heart behind with you, starry eyes, please keep it tethered to yourself.”_

Louis’ crawling across the space between them, kneeling in front of Harry. “Please, stop,” he pleads, voice breaking in eight different places.

_“I promised your mum that I would hear you out, let you explain why you stopped answering my calls and let us become strangers, but time and fate isn’t on our side, it seems, so I forgive you. Whatever your reasons might be for hurting me, Louis, I forgive you, because I promised to choose you above all else, always. I will always choose you, in every life, in every death, you are the one for me. It’s been a pleasure being in love with you. There are a million things I want to tell you because you’ve been gone for so long and you’re still my favorite person, but I don’t have time so I’ll settle for only two.”_

“Do you wanna know, Lou?” Harry can’t see Louis’ face, can't see anything past the tears that blur his vision. “Do you wanna know what I wanted to tell you when I was dying?”

All he hears is Louis’ quiet sobbing.

 _“One is that I wanted to marry you,”_ Harry recites from memory, the words burned behind his eyelids just the way he wrote them. _“You know this already, because I told you it, but I wanted to marry you and give you the entire world and have kids with you and maybe you thought I wasn’t serious so I’m telling you one more time: I wanted to marry you so much. I wanted to be yours, only, in every sense of the word, and I wanted you to be mine. The second thing is this: there’s a ring in my old room, in a tiny silver box, if you wish to have it.”_

All Harry is, is broken breaths and a shattered heart and _Louis Louis Louis_ in his shaking arms and kisses pressed to his forehead.

 _“Perhaps I don’t have the right, but I’ll ask one thing of you. I want you to make a list of your favorite things and I want my name to be somewhere on it, if not at the top, because if you look at mine you’ll find your name to be the first one on it.”_ Harry breaks. Every piece of him fucking shatters and ricochets around the small room, catching on hooks and edges, dripping blood. “ _Always in my heart, starry eyes. Ever yours truly, Harry Styles.”_

Louis is everywhere. He’s crowding Harry’s personal space, fingers touching his face and brushing back his hair, lips pressing delicate and reverent kisses to his face, and then – then Harry’s being crushed into Louis’ chest. They’re both crying, and it’s impossible to tell whose tears fall where, and their sobs become one, their hearts beating to the same broken rhythm. “You said – to your mum, you said I need a friend,” Harry hiccups, hands bunching up in Louis’ jumper. “You’re my friend, Louis, my best friend. You were always my favorite friend.”

“And you will always be at the top of my list of favorite things,” Louis promises in a voice that tears the remnants of Harry’s heart into shreds. He cradles Harry’s face in his hands, touch so careful, so fragile. “Please know,” he starts and then visibly stutters and Harry wishes he could know, just for a moment, how Louis feels. “Please know that you’re my favorite person, the most important person in my life. One day – I’m going to marry you one day, Harry Styles. I will choose you every day until there are no more days and still it won’t be enough days.” Louis’ eyes are glassy, and he’s still crying, but there’s so much _affection_ on his face now, so much raw emotion, it knocks Harry breathless. Every promise serves as a balm for Harry’s wounds. “I need you to stay alive, my love, need you to stay with me. I’m gonna hold your hand every step of the way and I need you to not let me go. Need you to just hold on.” He kisses the space between Harry’s brows. “Need you to let me love you for the rest of my life.”

The words strangle Harry, leave him with nothing more than gasping sobs. “You make me wanna live,” Harry confesses, shame threatening to drown him like it’s a dirty secret, “I wanna live for you.” He closes his eyes, whispers the words he’s been dying to tell Louis for two years. “I love you, Louis Tomlinson.” And he _feels_ Louis’ breath hitch, feels his pulse lose its rhythm. “Don’t let me go.”

Louis kisses him.

Their last kiss was cautious, almost shy, hesitant, like they were relearning each other’s ins and outs. This kiss is nothing of the sort. Lips press together hungrily, noses knocking together and teeth clashing, hands tangling in hair, pulling and tugging. The sounds that escape Louis make Harry’s blood thrum, his skin prickling with desire and longing and something so primal he’s reduced to nothing but breathless gasps. He bites at Louis’ lower lip, just to hear that sound again, and, oh, dear god, Harry has missed it.

“Won’t ever let you go,” Louis vows into Harry’s mouth between kisses, and perhaps that is enough, for now.

*

 _But we were two halves of one soul,_  
 _So you came back, leaving stardust in your wake_  
 _And I can finally_ b r e a t h e.

_It’s not perfect, but we are alive and that’s perfect for us._


	6. let's go home, love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis helps harry piece himself back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, folks! an epilogue is coming soon, but this story is almost over! please leave a kudos & comment, ur more than welcome to come yell at me on tumblr, rosesau.
> 
> the first poem used in this is written by the very lovely and very talented arlen c., whose other work you can check out on her tumblr, inkmagician ! thank u for letting me make it a part of this story, arlen! shout out to eden for telling me about her cat so i could give him a cameo :') 
> 
> songs:  
> \- kiss me by ed sheeran  
> \- all about you by mcfly  
> \- young and beautiful by lana del rey  
> \- look after you by the fray  
> (let me know if you'd like the playlist they dance to)

For the second time in as many years, Harry wakes up in Louis’ arms, chests pressed together, Louis’ ankles tangled with Harry’s shins, his fingers moving in small, tantalizing circles on Harry’s back. One of Harry’s arms is numb underneath Louis’ body, the other thrown over his waist, hand resting on the small of his back. Harry can feel Louis breathing into his hair, can feel the occasional kisses he drops on the crown of Harry’s head. The room is dark when Harry blinks his eyes open, focusing on the inky swirls marking Louis’ chest. He saw the tattoos last night, when they were going to bed and Louis took his jumper off to trade it for a softer shirt. _It Is What It Is,_ it reads. Harry traced it with his fingers last night, when he curled into Louis’ side. He presses his lips to Louis’ collarbone now in a single kiss, feels Louis’ fingers lose their rhythm on his back just for a moment.

There’s other tattoos, as well, adorning Louis’ right arm – some of which just happen to match Harry’s. They talked about matching tattoos ages ago, in another lifetime. Looking at them now in the dimly lit room, Harry wonders how many times a broken thing can break, because his heart feels cleaved in half again when he imagines Louis sitting in a tattoo parlor, inking his skin with promises made to a boy far away.

And it’s like this: even though it’s dark and Harry can barely see, Louis still shines bright like the stars, like the full moon against a black sky, like he’s returning the light that the world stole from Harry.

Harry moves his head back to look at Louis, only to bump it into Louis’ chin. “Oops,” he whispers when he can see Louis.

“Hi.” The word falls from Louis’ lips as a cross between a giggle and a sigh. Harry can just barely make out the hint of a smile gracing Louis’ mouth, but can feel it when it brushes against his browline. “You okay?” Harry dots three kisses along the back of Louis’ hand when it comes up to brush away Harry’s hair. “Missed your ugly mug, duckie,” Louis smiles, and even in the dark of the night, it’s a breathtaking thing.

Harry blinks a few times, eyes still heavy with sleep, and stifles a yawn to whisper, “I, too, missed your pretty face,” Harry pauses, bites back a smile when he adds, “little one.”

 _“Hey.”_ A muted giggle escapes Louis as he pulls Harry closer, curling their bodies so they fit together like mismatched puzzle pieces. This used to be so easy, so natural, perfect – and not that it isn’t anymore – but Harry has outgrown Louis, and they’re still laying like they used to years ago. “You’re the little one. Always gonna be the little one.”

“I’m taller than you now, Lou,” Harry reminds him, finger trailing across the ink that’s peeks out from beneath Louis’ shirt.

“Not by much,” Louis counters, his hands running through Harry’s hair, fingers tangling and tugging at curls.

“Still am, though.” Harry’s stubborn, he knows, and he knows Louis is, too, so this could go on for a while – could go on months and years. They always did have meaningless arguments about the littlest things – no pun intended – that lasted ages, because neither one would cave in and admit the other was right.

So it’s nothing short of a surprise when Louis concedes and whispers, “Yea, you are.” A delicate kiss pressed to Harry’s forehead. “Still my baby, though. Always gonna be my baby.”

Harry’s heart swells with affection, with so much _love_ for this boy who has loved him since he was eighteen. He’s aware that they aren’t living in a fairytale, knows that the sun will come up and they will have to talk about everything they left buried yesterday, knows they need to relearn each other and navigate their relationship again, but it’s okay, somehow. “Why’re you awake, bub?” he asks Louis, voice still thick with sleep.

Louis doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes Harry’s hand in his and tangles their fingers together, pressing gentle kisses to each groove of Harry’s knuckles. “Was thinking about you,” he finally answers, “Always thinking about you.”

“Me too. Thinking about you, I mean. Not myself, you know.” Harry’s cheeks burn crimson, and there’s a quiet rumble of Louis’ chest when he laughs.

“Missed your ramblings, too,” he says fondly, words getting lost in Harry’s hair. Another minute passes, in which Louis’ continues to leave distracted kisses on the back of Harry hand, his fingers, wrist, anywhere he can reach easily. Harry counts the beat of Louis’ heart, wonders if right now, after all these years, it’s beating to the rhythm of his name, like Louis always promised. “’M worried about you,” Louis whispers after some time, voice grave. “Worry ’bout you today and tomorrow and everyday, if you’ll be here. If I’ll be enough.”

And, oh, _oh,_ this is what it feels like to have you heart stomped on, to have it be pricked with needles that dig in too deep and leave only shreds behind. Harry drops a kiss on Louis’ chest, right where his heart is beating steadily underneath. “You’ll always be enough, Lou,” he promises, because there is no universe in which Louis Tomlinson is not enough for Harry Styles. “I’ll be here today and tomorrow and everyday, as long as you’ll have me.”

Harry thinks of Miss Margerie, who always told him, “Tomorrow never comes, Harry,” and he thinks, _you were wrong._ Tomorrow will come. There will be a thousand tomorrows, and each tomorrow will be another chance to fall more in love with the boy in his arms.

“Always, love.”

Harry doesn’t know what time it is, but the curtains at his window are pulled back, and he can see color breaking through the horizon, drowning the sky in pretty violets and blues, streaks of pink here and there. Louis’ fingers graze Harry’s neck, trail along the chain that’s tied around it, blissfully oblivious to the ring that hangs from it. He tugs on it, just a little, just for a moment, tugs at Harry’s heartstrings, before disentangling himself from Harry and sitting up. Harry misses his warmth instantly, hates himself for being so dependent and needy already, but he is. Louis gets up from the mattress and Harry’s eyes follow him as he picks up his phone and unlocks it, the lit screen casting a soft glow on his face.

 _My[golden one](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Tel1fmuCxEFV6wBLXsEdk), _ Harry thinks, but doesn’t voice how enraptured he is. Louis knows. He knows Louis knows. He has to know. Louis taps on his phone a few more time, sets it back on the desk and holds out a hand for Harry in the same instant. In the next second, Harry hears Ed Sheeran’s quiet voice and the guitar strums he knows so well. Heart beating in his throat, he wraps his fingers around Louis’ hand and lets himself be pulled up to his feet. Every touch feels tentative, almost reverent. Louis steps on his tippy toes and lets his lips press against Harry’s forehead, and Harry’s eyes flutter closed. There’s a million butterflies in his chest, fluttering around his heart, begging to be let loose.

 _Settle down with me_  
_Cover me up_  
_Cuddle me in_

Louis’ arms wound around Harry’s neck and Harry lets his own find their place on the small of Louis’ waist. They’re close now, bodies pressed together, Louis practically standing on Harry’s feet. His head is pressed to Harry’s shoulders, body swaying from side to side just a little bit. They’re dancing, but not really.

 _And your heart's against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck_  
_I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet_

Louis pulls his head back, raises it just a tiny bit to kiss Harry, lips finding the corner of Harry’s mouth.

_And with a feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now_

Harry meets him halfway, catches Louis’ lips with his own. His heart stutters, struggles to keep up with his desire. God, _god,_ it feels so good to kiss Louis again, to be kissed like he’s the only person in the whole world.

 _Kiss me like you wanna be loved_  
_This feels like falling in love_

It’s winter, and the flat is chilly, and they’re only wearing flimsy shirts and pants, and Louis’ only wrapping himself tighter around Harry, teeth digging into lips. Harry turns them, walks Louis backwards a few steps and presses him against the wall, using his own body to keep Louis warm.

 _I was made to keep your body warm_  
_But I'm cold as the wind blows so hold me in your arms_

Harry’s the one to break the kiss, just so he can see Louis, can memorize the way he looks right now. His blue eyes are burning bright in the dim room, kiss bitten lips so, _so_ red, and, _fuck,_ his eyes are more beautiful than they’ve ever been. There’s sapphires and emeralds in them, a whole universe worth of stars twinkling brighter than diamonds in the dark and Harry thinks –

 _I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet_  
_And with this feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now_

He’s falling in love, falling deeper in love with this boy he has loved all his life. They’re falling in love all over again, finding their way to each other across an entire galaxy. When he sees tears sparkle in Louis’ eyes, he thinks, _there’s a scattering of stars underneath your ribcage; they all sing of heartache with the way they attempt to restitch the cosmos across your chest, from where the hurt ripped you into pieces._

“I’m in love with you,” he tells Louis and kisses him one more time. Louis’ answering smile is worth more than every treasure in the world.

They cling to each other as the sky slowly blooms with color, as today turns into tomorrow, and Harry envisions his pen gliding across the pages in his journal when later in the day he’ll write:

look: this, light spilling like honey  
from our lips. this, stars finding homes  
in the leftover curves of our necks,  
bleeding something holy into our skin.

look: this, where you sang until the moon  
fell in love with us too. where we wrote  
all our sins and set them on fire and danced  
until the rising sun kissed wings onto our backs.

look: this, the exit wound you healed  
by telling me it was a place for the cosmos  
to enter and make me whole again. this,  
the castles we built in our heads for each other.

look: let’s go and splinter the stars.  
let’s run until we can fit the light in our bodies  
and teach it not to escape anymore.  
let’s run until we can find our way home again,

until we realize home has been inside of us  
the whole time, waiting for us to return.

*

They dance to a playlist Louis has on his phone and Harry doesn’t know how long they stay in each other’s arms, swaying to quiet music and the rhythm of each other’s hearts. It’s only when the sun is up and the sky is blue and Louis kisses Harry slowly and tells him, “Let’s get some tea,” that Harry holds him tighter in his arms.

“One more,” he says to Louis, and waits until Louis hums in agreement before letting go of him to pick up the phone and open up Louis’ Spotify. The playlist that’s still playing is simply titled _Harry,_ and Harry feels a surge of emotion looking at it. He wonders if Louis listened to it frequently when they were apart, if he sometimes fell asleep to it missing Harry the way Harry missed him. A part of him hopes so. Harry taps on the search bar, types in the title with fingers that shake only slightly. He can feel Louis staring at him and he glances up to smile, can’t help but smile. Louis grins back.

They’re just two best friends.

Harry puts the phone down, steps back into Louis’ arms as the beginning of the song [plays](https://open.spotify.com/track/0ElmwRAsaxaUZXnMbaSllH). One perk of being taller than Louis is this: he’s still taller if Louis stands on Harry’s feet; if he stands on up his tippy toes, Harry is still taller. So he bites down on a smile and tugs Louis closer till he’s balanced on Harry’s feet. They’re both smiling, and Harry’s concentrating very hard to not let them both fall, because, honestly, it’s no secret that he has two left feet. But he kisses Louis’ cheek and tells him, “This one’s for you, Lou.”

 _Yesterday, you asked me something I thought you knew_  
_So I told you with a smile 'It's all about you'_  
_Then you whispered in my ear and you told me too,_  
_Said, 'You make my life worthwhile, it's all about you'_

Harry hopes Louis’ paying attention to the song, hopes he can hear the lyrics, because it’s everything Harry wants to say to him. He can see the blue in Louis’ eyes now, sparkling with warmth and unshed tears and Harry kisses underneath them both. He remembers telling Louis, _“I wanna live for you,”_ remembers Louis saying to him, _“Need you to let me love you for the rest of my life.”_ And he hopes Louis knows Harry’s life is his. Harry was ruined for everyone else the day he fell in love with Louis Tomlinson. And, truth be told, he doesn’t even know when that was. All Harry knows is that he’s been in love with this boy for as long as he can remember.

 _And I would answer all your wishes, if you asked me to_  
_But if you deny me one of your kisses, don't know what I'd do_  
_So hold me close and say three words, like you used to do_  
_Dancing on the kitchen tiles, it's all about you_

“I love you,” Louis whispers the words into Harry’s neck and, in turn, Harry presses his lips to Louis’ cheek, smiles stretching across both of their faces. Louis’ smile is one Harry would turn the world upside down for. It’s a smile that is so genuine and sincere in its affection that Harry feels a flutter in his heart and, _damn it,_ there will never be a day that Louis fails to make him weak.

“There isn't a single universe,” he tells Louis, “not a single reality out there in which I’m not in love with you.”

And Louis kisses him again as the faint rays of the sun hit Harry’s face, so pathetically weak in comparison to the light that shines from Louis. _You're my golden boy,_ Harry thinks, hopes Louis can feel the words in Harry’s kiss, _you bring light to my grey world and you shine bright at the center of it._

They're just two best friends and the world is watching them fall in love again.

*

Harry talks to his mum on the phone the next day. It’s not really a conversation so much as it’s a garbled mess of fragmented sobs and whispers, of broken apologies and grave promises. He asks about Harriet, asks when she can come home because the thought of her tiny body hooked up to machines and needles turns his blood to ice. She should be sleeping in the arms of her mum – the safest and warmest place in the whole world – not the glass containers in the NICU.

“She had a heart murmur,” his mum tells him, but she doesn’t sound concerned, and that’s the only thing keeping him from screaming – that, and Louis’ hand clasped between his. “They fixed it yesterday, and she’s doing well. She’s a trooper.”

And, yes, she certainly is that. Harry wishes he could go see her, wishes he could scoop her into his arms and protect her from everything trying to wear her down, but he can’t. He can’t face her, or his mum, right now, but, _god,_ he wishes he could.

“Now I’ve got two baby H’s,” Louis smiles fondly after Harry ends the call, eyes crinkled at the corner. He brings up their intertwined hands up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s. “Little baby H is cuter, though, I’d bet.”

The feeling that bubbles up in Harry’s chest when he thinks about Harriet is so unlike anything he’s felt before. He has a sibling, considers the plethora of Louis’ siblings his own and loves them all to bits, but this tiny human is his own flesh and blood, a tiny miracle who’s got her tinier hands wrapped around his heart. It’s a kind of love he’s never experienced before, a kind of love so pure and so strong he wonders how Louis survives it.

He speaks to Gemma, too, who’s been in town since the night of the accident. She cries, as well, and wants to come over so she can yell at Harry in person, but Louis says no before Harry can. He isn’t ready to face them, yet – needs a bit more time to himself. And maybe Louis knows and maybe he doesn’t, but Harry is selfish, and he isn’t ready to step outside of the bubble he and Louis have created. It feels just like it used to, before Louis left, before Harry lost sight of everything, before things went to utter shit. But bubbles are meant to burst, and so does theirs.

It’s the fourth day and Harry’s tucked into a blanket on the sofa in front of the telly (Louis’ taking a shower) when the lock on the front door clicks. Harry watches, slightly transfixed and absolutely unmoving, as the doorknob twists and the door opens, revealing a disheveled looking Liam Payne. He flashes a small smile to Harry as he locks the door from the inside and comes to sit at the end of the sofa near Harry.

“Hey, mate,” he grunts quietly as he pulls Harry’s blanket clad legs into his lap, “How’re ya feelin’?”

“’M alright,” Harry replies, because as far as he knows, Liam has no reason not to believe him. He doesn’t know what happened – or almost happened. Anne didn’t mention anything about telling Liam, didn’t mention anything about Liam possibly coming home to check up on Harry. “Just tired.”

Liam reaches for the remote control and lowers the volume until it’s nothing more than a quiet hum, then fiddles with a stray thread on the blanket. There’s silence between them, the kind of silence that’s been haunting them since the night Zayn died, and there’s not a damn thing Harry can do to make it go away. It hangs between them, mocking the ease with which they used to talk, once upon a time. “I’m sorry,” Liam finally mumbles, then clears his throats, and continues without looking up from the blanket, “I’m sorry that I just… left like that. I didn’t mean to, like, I wasn’t trying to make you feel shit, or anything like that. I just –“ His voice is so quiet, so damn small, and Harry feels every word like a punch to his throat. “It was so hard, Harry, it’s still so fucking hard and I just needed m’ mum. But I didn’t – I never meant to just – I didn’t mean to _blame_ you. I didn’t wanna leave you, H, I really didn’t.” He looks up then, mouth curled in an apologetic smile. “Louis, uh, messaged me. Said you could use a friend right now and – I know what it’s like, feeling like you’ve got no one left.” Liam gives Harry’s ankles a quick squeeze. “I’m here, mate. I’m here for you.”

And that’s not what Harry was expecting at all. He’s confused, a little, and also upset, bright red pangs of anger tugging at the back of his mind. He understands, to an extent, that Louis is looking out for him, is trying to bridge the gap between Harry and his friends and family. He understands, to an extent, that this is Louis’ way of taking care of him, but still, he can’t help the irrational flare of anger he feels. He isn’t a child, incapable of mending and maintaining his own relationships. He doesn’t need Louis to play moderator, never fucking asked Louis to do that. He got by just fine for two years, managed to survive without Louis having to do the difficult shit for him.

“Thanks, Liam,” is all he can say, because, honestly, what else is there? He isn’t about to tell his best friend he tried to kill himself. He won’t be the one to make Liam feel guilty about something that isn’t his fault in the slightest, no one fucking needs that, especially not after losing the most important person in their life. “Are you staying?” he asks Liam, because Harry needs to speak to Louis and he doesn’t necessarily want an audience for their conversation.

“Yeah, like, if you don’t mind? I told Mum I’d spend a few days.” Liam sounds hesitant, unsure, like he’s asking for Harry’s permission, and Harry fucking feels awful about it. He doesn’t own the bloody place, for fuck’s sake, they share it. Harry moved in last; it belonged to Liam and Zayn first.

“Yeah, ’course I don’t mind.” And he really doesn’t. He’d just have to talk to Louis while Liam is under the same roof. “I cleaned your room a couple o’ days ago, so it’s not a mess. Think Louis said something about ordering dinner later.”

Liam makes what Harry interprets as a noncommittal sound of agreement, which is good enough for him. Harry turns on his side so his face is hidden in the sofa and closes his eyes, hoping Liam gets the hint that he doesn’t want to talk anymore – mainly because he doesn’t know what Liam might want to talk about, if anything. And Harry hasn’t really spoken to anyone but Louis the last few days and he doesn’t feel like changing that at this moment.

“Harry?” Liam does well with silence, but, of course, the one time Harry actually wants it, he can’t have it. He gives Liam a quiet _hmm_ in response to show he’s listening, but doesn’t turn to face him. A moment later, Liam asks, “Is it okay, that Louis’ here? Are you two okay?”

And, fuck, of course, it would be strange to Liam that Louis is in their flat, taking a shower as though he lives here, when a week ago he and Harry were not on speaking terms. Harry doesn’t know how to explain his sudden reappearance without getting into the details of that night – how he called Harry and talked him down from the edge, kissed him under plastic stars and held him in his arms and sung him to sleep. He doesn’t know how to explain any of it, the things they talked about in the kitchen after breakfast and in bed when they were both half asleep. He remembers saying to Liam, _“If you see him, tell him to stay the fuck away from me.”_ How is he expected to explain why Louis is here? How does he tell Liam he’s still in love with the boy who broke his heart a million times over without looking weak and pathetic?

Harry takes his face out of the sofa and turns to Liam without looking at him. “We talked,” is what Harry settles for, staring at his fingers, “he, uh, found me at a bad time and just, like, helped me. Talked me through it and kept me from losing myself, so…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Liam admits softly, shamefully, and Harry doesn’t have the time to correct him before he’s asking, “D’you want him here?”

Harry bites his lip, torn between wanting to tell Liam the truth and fearing what Liam will think once he knows it. But it’s _Liam_ – the same Liam who’s seen Harry try to get over Louis, who knows how spectacularly Harry failed at doing so. Liam knows Harry inside and out, so Harry simply tells him the truth: “I love him, Li.”

And when Liam smiles a broken smile, Harry feels his heart break for his friend, because he _knows_ what – who – Liam is thinking of. Harry scrambles to sit up, which proves to be a difficult task with the blanket wrapped around him, and pulls Liam into his arms, holding tight as he can. They don’t need words, because this time the silence speaks for them. Harry feels that ever-present sense of guilt that overwhelms him whenever Liam is around, and he wishes for the millionth time he could rewrite the last two months, but he can’t, so he just hugs Liam in the silence that surrounds them until Liam breaks it.

“Gonna go lie down for a bit, yeah?”

“Okay.”

So Liam goes to his room and Harry gets up from the sofa, as well, because he hears Louis shutting a drawer in his room. Harry shuffles to it, blanket still hanging off his shoulders like a cape, and finds Louis tugging on a blue shirt, hair still damp and stuck together at odd angles. Harry watches from the threshold, his heart and his head at war with each other. Louis flashes him a warm smile, “I’m takin’ you out today.”

Where, Harry doesn’t ask, because this is the first he’s hearing of going anywhere. Instead, he asks, “Why is Liam here?”

Louis’ smile falters, then drops altogether. He walks closer to Harry, pulls him into the room until they’re both sat on the lone mattress. “I thought it might help,” Louis starts, and if there isn’t a hint of remorse in his voice, then Harry’s going to pretend he heard it. “You’ve been so… you’re so _sad,_ H, and I thought talking and reconnecting with people you love could fix that a bit.”

And this – this is what Harry was hoping with all his might Louis wouldn’t say, because Harry isn’t a thing to be _fixed._ He might be broken and damaged beyond belief, and he might be alive for Louis, but he isn’t a toy Louis can tape back together. So he pulls his hands out of Louis’ and tells Louis that much. “I’m not something for you to fix.” He wants to sound strong, but his voice wobbles, and his vision swims with tears that he blinks back, and he watches Louis’ face crumble. “I’m not a charity project you can dote some time on, Louis. I’m not going to be happy and bubbly just because you called and got my friend back home. I’m not – you can’t fucking waltz back into my life and expect me to be the same person you left. That’s not how – I can’t –” He knows he just hit below the belt, knows he probably shouldn’t have said what he just said, but he’s struggling to breathe again, just like he always fucking is, and it’s hard to talk or see and –

Louis takes holds of his wrists again, and his fingers are cold against Harry’s skin, but Louis presses his thumbs into Harry’s pulse point, and Harry can feel it beating unsteadily against Louis’ skin. It’s sad, it’s downright pitiful – this ache that he keeps feeling, because at this point, even he has run out of words to describe the constant pain. It’s lost all meaning, but it still hurts just as much as it did the first time. “Breathe, pup,” Louis whispers in hushed tone, lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear. Pride be damned for just a moment, Harry wraps his own fingers around Louis’ wrists, slipping them under the thin shirt to feel his pulse. He lets his head fall against Louis’ shoulder and closes his eyes as he feels Louis’ life beat underneath his fingertips. He takes in a breath, counts five beats of Louis’ heart, and lets it out slowly. “There we go, you’re alright, my love,” is pressed into his hair, “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

 _No, I’m not,_ Harry wants to scream, but he’s still clinging to Louis like his life depends on it – and the punchline is that it probably does. “Lou –”

“Just breathe, babe.”

And Harry does. He syncs his breathing to Louis’ pulse, taking in a breath after every five beats and letting it out in the same fashion. It helps slow it down, helps steady his erratic heart, and Harry feels most of his anger dissipate. He’s still upset, but more so at himself for being the way he is than at Louis. If he weren’t like this, Louis wouldn’t feel the need to piece him back together, wouldn’t feel obligated to _fix_ him. Louis stopped talking to him because he thought, with enough time and distance between them, Harry might outgrow him, might find someone better. While Harry’s glad, so fucking glad, to have Louis back in his arms, because there is _no one_ better than Louis for Harry, the ugly truth is this: maybe Louis should have stayed away. He deserves someone whole, someone who shines as bright as he does, someone who can love him without weighing him down. Because that’s all Harry seems to do. He’s like the bloody sun in a solar eclipse; just because he’s shielded by the moon doesn't mean he won't blind anyone who makes the mistake of coming too close.

“I’m a fucking disaster, Louis,” Harry grits out through a sob that dies in his throat. He pushes away from Louis and scoots back until he hits the wall. “You can’t fix me and I’m always going to be a fucking mess and you deserve someone better.”

“Harry.” Louis sounds like he’s pleading, _looks_ like he’s pleading because he’s kneeling in front of Harry, hands outstretched between them like he’s desperate to reach out and touch Harry. “I’m trying to _help,_ baby, I’m not – I know I can’t fix you. God,” he whispers the last word, breath catching in his throat, and Harry can’t look away even though watching the anguish on Louis’ face is killing him. “You’re _hurting_ , love. I know you are. I wish –” Louis wraps his fingers around Harry’s ankles. “Listen to me, hey.” Louis gives his ankles a squeeze. “Are you listening? Gimme a nod, love. Something.”

“I’m listening,” Harry mumbles. He’s got nothing but the blanket to hold, so he busies his fingers with it, twisting it around them.

“I was gonna take you to me house today,” Louis tells him with a tiny smile, “and I was gonna think of a nice little speech on the way, but you’ve put me on the spot now, so it’ll be a bit shit.” _His house._ He didn’t say anything about taking Harry to his house because that house is in London and Harry has never seen it. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, H. I didn’t – if I had any idea how much I was hurting you, I would’ve sprouted wings to fly back home, please know that. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Lou –”

“Just listen, yeah? Promise there’s a point to it all.” His thumbs move in small circles on Harry’s ankles and Harry waits silently for him to continue. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares down at his hands on Harry’s skin and chews on his lip before glancing at Harry from underneath his eyelashes. “I promised you, and myself, years ago that I would always choose you, and I know now that doesn’t mean just literally choosing you over everything else. It also means always having your back, helping you whenever you need me, making sure you’re okay and that’s – I wanna do that, H. I wanna help you.” He lets go of Harry’s ankles in favor or taking Harry’s hands in his, thumb brushing over Harry’s knuckles. “You’ve lost a friend, love, you’ve lost a _best friend,_ and I’m not foolish enough to think I can just, like, I don’t know… fill that hole. I can’t. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. He’s – I can’t take his place.” His voice is starting to tremble, and Harry’s heart feels heavy. Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s fingers. “You’re in pain, baby. You’ve got so much hurt and guilt squared away and you’re letting it eat you alive, pretending you’re fine, putting on a smile for your mum, but you’re not okay.”

Louis links their fingers together, tugging Harry forward just a little. He’s still kneeling in front of Harry. His hair looks like it’s dry now, falling across his forehead in a fluffy mess and Harry resists the urge to run his finger through it.

“You said – the other night, you said you wanna live for me. So do that, love,” Louis implores, “Live for me until you want to live for yourself. I can’t – I don’t know how to take away your pain, but I want you to get better. I want you to live, little bird. I might be losing me mum, and I’m slowly making my peace with that because I need to stay strong for the girls, but, baby –” His voice fucking breaks in a million places and Harry sees tears sparkles in his eyes. He feels his own heart break. “I can’t save you if won’t let me, and I need you to. Please. We’ll start small – baby steps. See a counselor, yeah? I’m not equipped to properly help you, but I can’t – I _can’t_ lose you.”

“Louis…” He wants Louis to stop talking because this – it’s too much. Harry’s been so wrapped up in his own world that he forgot just how much weight Louis carrying on his shoulders. The reminder of Jay’s illness is sobering, and Harry wants to freeze time and keep all his loved ones safe and alive. He gets on his knees so he’s closer to Louis and wraps his arms around Louis’ neck, pulling him in for a hug. “Your mum will be okay, Lou,” he promises, and he doesn’t know how he can say it with such certainty, but he says it. Jay will be okay, she has to be.

“So will you, love,” Louis whispers, arms coming around Harry’s back. “I know… I know you don’t think so, but you’ve got a tiny little sister with a name like yours and she’s out there somewhere, fighting against all odds and kicking arse. I have faith, you know, in both of my baby H’s.”

Tears prick at Harry’s eyes, and for once he isn’t sure if they’re happy or sad. “Lou, she’s – she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever seen. My favorite little person in the world.”

He feels Louis kiss his neck. “D’you wanna go see her tomorrow? I wanna take you to London today, but I wanna meet her soon. Can’t wait to meet her.”

“Why London?”

“Wanna show you my house.” His fingers are tracing nonsensical patterns on Harry’s back and Harry could stay like this forever. “And I think, maybe, I think it’ll be good to get away for a bit. A change in scenery. But first,” Louis pulls back to look at Harry, eyes slightly darker than Louis, “promise me you’ll try speaking with a therapist. If it doesn’t work, we can try something else. But promise me you’ll try, you’ll let me help.”

His eyes are so earnest, so fucking desperate for Harry to say yes, he knows, and it breaks Harry’s heart. He’s so close to Harry, they’re practically in each other’s laps, and he’s begging Harry to accept help, to fucking live, and all Harry can do is think about how inviting Louis’ mouth looks, soft and bruised from earlier. “Okay,” Harry whispers, because there’s nothing else to say.

“Promise me, babe.”

They’re still fucking kneeling on the floor.

Harry doesn’t know what he signed up for, doesn’t know how he’s going to fulfill his promise, but he shoves it to the back of his mind, revels instead in the feeling of Louis’ lips on his, his hands on Harry’s body, commits the whispered _I love you’s_ to memory.

*

Their trip to London has a detour before they’re five minutes into the drive. They’re driving to Zayn’s house, because according to Louis, it’s something Harry needs to do. Talk to Trisha, that is. Harry doesn’t agree. Last time he saw Trisha, he had to fucking run away because he couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing him. And the time before that – well. He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes at the funeral, knowing she would rather Harry be dead so she could have her son back. He doesn’t know what Louis expects him to say, what he thinks will happen, because Harry has nothing but empty words to offer. Not a single apology will bring Zayn back or make Trisha forgive Harry, so really, there’s no point in going and seeing her. Louis keeps insisting, though, keeps saying it’ll help, that it’ll probably be the first step towards healing and letting go of his guilt. Harry doesn’t agree, of course, he doesn’t, because how is he meant to not feel guilty about failing to save his best friend? About being the reason his best friend needed saving in the first place?

So, they’re driving to Zayn’s house first, instead of heading to Louis’ house, the quiet sound of Lana Del [Rey’s](https://open.spotify.com/track/2nMeu6UenVvwUktBCpLMK9) voice filling Louis’ car.

 _Will you still love me_  
_When I got nothing but my aching soul?_  
_I know you will, I know you will_

“Will you,” Harry interrupts the quiet serenity they’ve fallen into, singing along to the music and turning his head to look at Louis’ face; he catches the smile just as it blooms there, “still love me when I’m no longer beautiful?”

Louis feigns surprise, jaw dropping in mock confusion, eyes blinking a few too many times too fast. “Are you out of your mind, Harold?” He tries to bite his smile, but fails horribly as his eyes crinkle at the corners, and Harry knows his own face is hopelessly fond. “I’m out of here the second I see a grey hair in that curly mop of yours.”

“That is… that’s tragic, LouLou,” Harry grimaces, and feels utter glee at Louis’ exclaim of _heyyyy,_ feels the indent of his dimples digging into his mouth. “Here I was, planning to woo you until my very last breath.”

“I’m gonna leave you while you’re still young and beautiful just for calling me that,” Louis threatens, words laced with affection and laughter. “Get out of me car, you can walk the rest of the way, ya absolute numpty.” His tone is so light and playful, so completely at ease, and Harry can’t stop the cackle that bubbles out of him. Before he knows it, they’re both laughing themselves silly and Harry can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, felt good enough to _want_ to laugh without a care in the world. Louis’ hand finds his and there’s five kisses pressed into his skin, one on each knuckle. “Missed hearing you laugh. Missed seeing you happy and free like this.”

“You make me happy,” Harry says honestly.

And, god, he hasn’t seen Louis out and about in the daylight like this since that day at the cemetery, and he’d forgotten how unreal Louis looks when the sun hits his face. It’s England, so brightly sunny days are a scarcity, but today is one such day and Louis shines golden. His hair falls in a soft fringe across his forehead, catching the sunlight in a few places and glowing amber. His cheeks have just a hint of rose in them from laughing so much and if only Harry could place a golden halo atop his head.

“Always wanna make you happy,” Louis responds with another delicate kiss to Harry’s hand and Harry’s chest blossoms with warmth.

When they get to Zayn’s house – because it will always be Zayn’s house, whether he's alive or not – Harry has to take a minute to just breathe. He cannot walk through that door without breaking down, he knows this, but he also cannot walk in with red eyes and tears down his face. He can't. Louis gets out of the car when they park and comes around to open the passenger side door, but doesn't ask Harry to get out, as well. Instead, he kneels down and puts his hands on Harry’s thighs, a thumb stroking over Harry’s jeans and the other hand tangling with Harry’s. “Look at me, darling,” he murmurs. Harry does, finds him staring up at Harry with something so genuine in his eyes Harry can't place it. It’s concern, but not exactly. “You'll be okay. I'm gonna be right there with you, a’right?”

It helps, just a little, knowing he won't be alone, knowing Louis will be with him. It makes it just a little easier. And he doesn't know what he's walking into, doesn't know what's going to happen when he walks through that door, but if there's one person he trusts, despite everything, it's Louis. He trusts Louis not to let him be hurt further, not after everything they've been through. So he gets out of the car and puts his arms around Louis, holding him close for a moment, letting himself be grounded. Louis smells faintly of  lemons and and Harry's pomegranate shampoo. 

_~~He's here he's not going anywhere he's here he's here he's here –~~ _

“Thank you.” He doesn't know if the words make it past his lips, or if they perhaps get swept away in the breeze, but Louis gives his waist a squeeze and, maybe, they weren't lost. They make their way to the front door hand in hand, Harry's heart beating a little too fast. There's so many memories here, a million ghosts of Zayn everywhere. By the swing under the tree is where he sprained his ankle, and the front steps is where they sat for almost two hours because they didn't have a key to the house and didn't want to walk to Harry’s. It's when they decided to get Liam a Buzz Lightyear piñata for his birthday. The backyard is where they all plotted Harry and Louis’ scandalous kiss as Romeo and Nurse.

There's just so many fucking skeletons to bury.

Louis rings the doorbell, and Harry leans into him for support. _Breathe in, breathe out. One two three, in. One two three, out._ Louis squeezes his hand, kisses his shoulder, whispers, “I’m here.” And, in all honesty, that’s the only reason Harry’s here, too, because without Louis, he would never have had the strength to come here, to willingly face Zayn’s mother. There’s just nothing substantial left to be said to a mother who has lost her child.

Before the door opens, Harry hears the distinct barking of a dog he knows quite well, and he has a flash of a memory – Zayn fallen asleep on the floor with the dog half on top of him – and he feels his palms get clammy. They wait another minute, Harry growing more anxious by the second, and then the door is swinging open and Boris’ large brown body is tackling Harry, making him stumble back and almost lose his balance – which he does, when his legs tangle with Louis’. He falls onto his back, Boris clambering on his chest and tongue slobbering all over his face. “Hey, pal,” Harry giggles, the knot is his chest all but gone. Harry scratches the excited dog behind his ears, earning himself more kisses. “I missed you, too. How’s my favorite boy?” Harry’s entire face is wet, along with his ears, but he can’t quite bring himself to care in the slightest. He sits up with some difficulty and pulls Boris into his lap, letting the dog nuzzle into his neck, still scratching his head. “You’re the best boy, yes, you are,” and he would say more, but at that moment, his gaze falls onto Trisha, who’s looking out at them with a small, barely visible smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Hello, Harry.” She doesn’t sound angry, or upset, or devastated, which Harry takes as a good sign as he struggles to his feet with Boris still latching onto him. “Hi, Louis.” And, maybe, just maybe, she sounds a little wary when she says Louis’ name, and Harry doesn’t blame her. She hasn’t seen Louis is such a while, has no idea why he dropped out of their lives without a warning. “Come in, boys, I was just about to prepare some tea.”

“No, it’s okay,” Harry says, voice small and unsteady. He takes Louis’ hand and doesn’t miss the glance Trisha throws their way. _It’s okay you’re fine just talk it’ll be fine._ “We need to get going, so we can’t stay long, but I just – I wanted to speak to you.”

“You can still come in, love,” she insists with a pleasant smile and beckons them inside with a wave. “Come on. Talk to me in the kitchen.” So, after a moment’s hesitation and a nod from Louis, they both follow Trisha inside, with Boris playfully nipping Harry’s heels. The house is quiet, no sign of any chitter chatter from the girls. Harry doesn’t dwell too much of why that could be, what his role in that is. He can’t spiral down that hole if he wants to stay composed and talk to Trisha.

“How is everyone?” he asks her, instead, because it’s something you ask a good family friend when you haven’t seen them in a while. It’s also the polite thing to do, and his mum would skin him alive if he were anything but.

“Alright, I suppose.” There’s a strange hollowness to the place, something vaguely desolate that makes Harry’s chest heavy, knowing there’s an empty room downstairs where Zayn should be. “Everyone’s adjusting,” Trisha continues in an agonizingly poignant tone, “the girls have it a bit easier, what with school and their activities, but everyone’s just learning to live with it. Gonna be a while before it stops feeling like a part of me is missing, you know. Not sure if I’ll ever get there, but. Everyone’s doing their best.”

She’s putting a tea bag in her mug and Harry’s feeling… like he shouldn’t be here. He has no business talking to this woman about her son’s death, has absolutely no right to tell her he’s sorry when sorry is nothing more than an empty word that can’t stitch her wounds together or resurrect her son. Harry flinches when a hand comes to rest on his knee where he’s sat at the counter on a barstool, but relaxes he realizes it’s just Louis. He puts his own hand atop Louis’ and takes small comfort in his presence. “I’m sorry,” he tells Trisha, voice a quivering mess, and even he can tell how hollow that word is, how utterly meaningless in this context.

“What for, dear?”

Harry’s eyes are trained on the marble counter, tracing nonsensical patterns rather than facing Trisha. “It’s, like, I know if it weren’t for me – if I hadn’t forced him to come out with me that night, if we hadn’t gotten so wasted, and I hadn’t taken him up to the roof, he would, god,” he wipes at his eyes furiously, ashamed and embarrassed that he can’t talk about this _once_ without crying, “he’d still be alive. I just – I’m so, so sorry, Trisha, I didn’t mean – it wasn’t my –”

She’s come around the counter now, tea forgotten on her side of it and she’s pulling Harry into a hug that feels so damn motherly, reminds him so much of the way his own mum hugs him sometimes, and Harry’s heart constricts painfully in his chest. She’s got her arms around Harry’s shoulders, one hand on the back of his head, and she’s so small that Harry’s head is pressed against her shoulder. “Harry, love, of course, it isn’t your fault, dear. Don’t feel guilty about that. You didn’t cause any of this.”

 _I did, I took him out and I let him die._ “I know – I know that you want him back, you’d do anything to have him back, Trisha, and if I could trade places with him for you, I would in a heartbeat.”

Her hand is smoothening his hair, the other moving in tiny circles on his back, and she sounds like she’s trying to hold back a sob when she says, “Oh, honey, I’d never want that from you. Harry, you’re like a son to me, and you mean so very much to me, to us all. I would do just about anything to bring Zayn back, but sacrificing you isn’t on that long list of things. Look at me, sweetheart.” She waits for Harry to pull back, and when he does, he sees that her eyes are glassy, a bit distant, and he wonders what she’s seeing right now, how far away from this room she is. She brushes back his hair from his forehead, fingers so gentle against his skin. “Listen to me, love. I’ve seen the security footage from that night. I know what happened, I know you feel guilty, but listen to me. You didn’t do anything, alright? You’re not at fault for any of it, and I don’t want you blaming yourself. You hear me? Every time you feel that way, I want you to look in the mirror and tell yourself it’s not your fault. Tell yourself you did nothing wrong. Understand?” She pauses, gazes at Harry expectantly until he nods halfheartedly. “Say it as many times as you need to. Say it until it starts feeling like the truth. Say it a hundred times every single day if that’s what it takes.” She kisses the crown of his head and hugs him close again. “You’ve done nothing wrong, you lovely boy, nothing at all. Stop punishing yourself.”

Harry’s crying silently into her shoulder, feeling lighter than he has in months, but some simultaneously worse. Despite Trisha’s words, there’s this nagging feeling that she said them only to appease Harry, to pacify him for a bit so he wouldn’t be a pathetic blubbering disaster weighing on her conscience. But a part of him, albeit a _very small_ part, wants to believe her – wants to believe that he isn’t responsible for his best friend’s death. He wishes he could, but it’s not easy; he doesn’t know how to break down those walls he’s put up, doesn’t know how to make himself understand the opposite of something that’s been keeping him awake at night because he believes in it that strongly.

So he lets Trisha hold him and hopes that her embrace can mend some broken part of him. ~~It’s hope, and he knows hope is foolish for the damned, but he clings to it like an anchor.~~

*

They end up at Louis’ house the next evening. Once they parted ways with Trisha, Harry was too exhausted for a drive to London and be good company, so Louis drove them back home, where they ate dinner with Liam while _Titanic_ played on the telly. Harry might have been emotionally drained, but he had enough left in him to yell at the screen with Rose selfishly – and rather stupidly – let Jack freeze to death in the Atlantic. They fell asleep like that – tangled with each other on the sofa, dirty plates and cups on the coffee table. And now they’re here, stood outside Louis’ house while he fumbles for his key. They had to climb three flights of stairs, and Harry’s poor lungs resulted in him being out of breath, but the nerves he’s feeling have got nothing to do with his inability to breathe properly.

This is where Louis lives, the place he calls home when he’s away from _home._ Harry doesn’t know what to expect when the red door in unlocked, apart from what little Louis has told him: he has a housemate called Fionn (that’s old news), he has a dog and a cat (that’s new information), his room is probably, most definitely messy (not surprising), he has a photo of Harry in his bedroom (this tidbit made Harry’s heart grow twice in size). The key clicks in the lock when Louis twists it and pushes the door open, murmuring a quiet, “After you, love,” so, Harry steps inside, taking in the pale walls and dark tiles. They’re in a small corridor that leads to a living space, where someone’s curled up on a leather sofa – Harry can only make out an off-white jumper and a mess of dark hair. Then there’s a bark and it’s not aggressive, or threatening, but rather curious, and a fairly small brown dog comes scurrying from an adjoining room and aims for Louis, who crouches down and catches the puppy in his arms, talking excitedly in hushed tones.

“Harry,” he looks over his shoulder, eyes bright with a smile and pearly teeth on display, “this is my baby. His name is Mr. White.”

Harry can’t help the cackle of a laugh that escapes him when he drops to his knees beside Louis, reaching out to pet the dog. He’s a quiet fellow, relaxed in Louis’ arms like he hasn’t got a care in the world – and he doesn’t, really, but he’s a far cry from the hyperactive mess that Boris is. “You’ve a brown dog named Mr. White?” he asks Louis, unable to bite his smile.

“He’s lovely, isn’t he?” And he sounds so damn happy, so at ease, that Harry just wants to freeze this moment and live in it forever. He leans in and leaves a quick kiss on Louis’ cheek. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to Cappuccino.” They both get to their feet and Harry follows Louis to the leather sofa, where someone – Fionn, presumably – is asleep and a mostly white kitten with dark brown paws and ears is curled next to his chest. “Hey, Caps,” Louis whispers when he kneels by the sofa and strokes the cat behind its ear with a thumb. He puts Mr. White down on the floor, who trots a few steps over to Harry, licking at his feet, and Harry picks him up and – he’s surprisingly light. Harry stares down at the dog in his arms, so content, and he thinks he might’ve found his favorite thing in the whole world.

Louis’ stood up now, too, with the tiny cat in his arms, letting it nuzzle his neck. “He’s Fionny’s baby,” Louis tells Harry, “he’s two months old and he’s the youngest of us boys. Wanna hold him?” Harry nods and holds out an arm that isn’t full of Mr. White and Louis transfers the cat easily to Harry, who feels just a little overwhelmed with affection. This all seems so… domestic – Louis treating the animals so gently, introducing them to Harry, letting Harry be a part of this life he knows nothing about. And this house – it feels homey, feels very lived-in, and Harry heart feels full knowing that Louis’ willing to share it with him. There’s framed pictures on the walls and Harry assumes they’re mostly Louis’ on photography – pictures of Fionn in different locations, some gorgeous architecture shots (Harry can only recognize the two European structures), a few photos of their families. There’s a small stack of textbooks on the rug next to the sofa, a notebook open with a pen peeking out from underneath. In the corner, there’s an empty dog bed and a cat tree that’s definitely taller than Harry. This room appears to lead to the dining room; Harry can make out the corner of a dark mahogany tabletop.

Sometime later, they end up in Louis’ bedroom, which is all sleek furniture and dirty clothes strewn about, and the first thing that really catches Harry’s attention are the _three_ guitars leaned against a wall and, well, Harry has to laugh, because Louis can’t play well to save his life. Harry sits down cross-legged on the thick, pale rug and carefully picks one up, cradling it in his lap and testing the strings. Louis’ stood by the threshold, watching Harry with a fond smile on his face. Harry clears his throat, feeling a blush creep up his neck, and strums the guitar, not looking away from Louis for a moment when he begins to [sing](https://open.spotify.com/track/5l6hpyTGBK0LAAxgPnqTQL).  

 _There now, steady love, so few come and don't go_  
_Will you, won't you be the one I'll always know?_  
_When I'm losing my control, the city spins around_  
_You're the only one who knows, you slow it down_

Louis’ come closer inside now, shoes kicked off, and he’s taken a seat on the floor next to Harry, letting their knees knock together as he sings the chorus with Harry, turning his head to press a kiss to Harry’s shoulder. Harry feels tears prick his eyes, but they’re happy tears, he thinks, because all he feels in this moment in happiness. He’s here, with Louis, getting to catch up on the life he missed with Louis, and he’s overcome with emotion, all of a sudden. He skips a verse, because Louis knows this song, considering it’s _their_ song, but he sings the last one because it’s never been more fitting.

 _It's always have and never hold_  
_You've begun to feel like home_  
_What's mine is yours to leave or take_  
_What's mine is yours to make your own_

There’s a thousand stars exploding in Louis’ eyes when they finish the song together, when Louis pries the guitar from Harry’s fingers to put it back against the wall and climbs into Harry’s lap to press their lips together in a chaste kiss, brushing an _I love you_ against his mouth. His lips move against Harry’s jaw and down his neck, and, maybe this might lead somewhere else before Harry’s seen anything else, so he pulls Louis in for another kiss before shoving him off gently and getting to his feet. He looks at the various pictures on the walls, all of them of Louis’ mum and siblings. There’s one on his bedside table, of him and Harry – Harry knelt down on the ground, offering Louis a single white rose in all their terribly cringey teenage glory. Even though the photo only shows Harry’s profile, he knows he had the biggest smile on his face, dimples cratering both cheeks. To see it framed in Louis’ room miles away from Harry, framed here when Harry thought Louis didn’t care for him in the slightest, when Harry believed Louis gave up on them – Harry blinks back hot tears and turns in place to face Louis, only to find him right there, inches away from Harry.

“Was this – how long has this been here?” he asks quietly when Louis steps up to him. Harry’s hands naturally find their place at the small of Louis’ waist.

Louis kisses Harry, lips catching the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Ages,” he whispers, “Put it up in me old dorm, and brought it to the States with me. It’s been here a while.” He tugs at one of Harry’s curls, mouth lifting at the corner in a fond smile, and he says, “You’re always in my heart, sweets, even if I’m not in yours.”

“Always are, blue” Harry tells Louis sincerely. They’re standing so close, chests practically touching, and Harry can see the trio of freckles by Louis’ nose, can see the universe shimmering in Louis’ eyes, and he thinks, _I’m so in love with you, will always be so stupidly in love with you_ , but the words don’t come out like that. But Louis must read them in his eyes, must see it somewhere on his face that’s always been an open book for Louis, because he leans up and cranes his neck to kiss Harry, and unlike last time, this kiss is fervent, and then Louis pulls Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down just enough to ignite a fire somewhere deep inside Harry, and all he can think is, _I want nothing but you for the rest of my life._ “I wanna make love to you,” is what comes out in a hushed whisper against Louis’ mouth, and Louis stills at the words.

_[ooh steamy sex scene yes fionn is sleep outside]_

They’re in Louis’ bed afterwards, naked bodies tangled underneath the sheets, Louis’ cheek pressed to Harry’s chest, his fingers playing idly with the ring hanging from Harry’s neck. The fancy digital clock on Louis’ wall indicates its almost six the evening, and Harry’s stomach might grumble in a little while, but for now they’re both content to lay in each other’s arms. Louis keeps dropping small kisses to whatever patch of skin he can reach, which is plenty, to be honest, and Harry does the same. He feels complete, for once, like he has everything he could ever want in life, everything he could ever need. It’s not true, of course, but it’s enough for now.

“D’you ever hate me?” Louis breaks the silence, though his voice is barely more than a whisper. “Like, when I was gone. Did you ever hate me?”

Harry doesn’t stop tracing his fingers up and down Louis’ spine when he answers with a simple, “Yeah.” When Louis doesn’t say anything immediately, Harry knows he’s waiting for an explanation, so Harry continues. “I hated you loads, especially the first few days after I really started believing that you wouldn’t be back. I wrote to you, thought you just needed some space, so I let you be and just wrote to you, but then, at some point, the lads made me believe you were really gone. Told me to move on. And that’s when I hated you most. Because, like, I tried, you know. Despite knowing it wouldn’t do any good, I _tried_ to move on, and at the end of every day, I just wanted you, and I hated that.” Louis’ fingers come up to stroke his jaw, pressing tiny apologetic kisses into the skin. “I hated that I loved you, really, because God knows I thought you hated me.”

“You believe in fate, right?” Louis asks then. “In destiny, and everything happening for a reason?” Harry nods against Louis and hums his agreement, encouraging Louis to go on. “I think – and this might sound stupid – but I think the reason I left, the reason we were apart for so long, was because I needed to understand that you’re it for me.” He props himself on one elbow so he can face Harry. “Not like I didn’t know before, because the whole time I was in London or America or anywhere else, I knew there wasn’t anyone else out there for me, so I had to come back to you. And I’m not, like, settling, you know. Not like you’re a last resort.” Louis tugs on the ring a little, a brief smile lighting up his face. “I think there’s a lot of people out there for everyone, and I could probably find someone else, too, but I don’t want to. I selfishly just want it to be you, and I want me to be the one that you want, always. Like, there’s a billion stars in the sky always, and you can claim any one as your favorite and it’s all good, but there’s only one True North. And you’re mine.”

It’s a lot. Everything he just said is a lot because Harry spent so long believing Louis didn’t care, _forced_ himself to believe Louis didn’t care, and hearing all this now, there’s a pang in his chest that hurts only a little because most of him feels elated. “You’re mine,” he tells Louis with a kiss.

“I wanna be yours. Today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. Every day, I wanna be yours. I love you today, and when tomorrow comes, I wanna fall in love with you all over again. I want the rising sun to witness me falling for you every time it breaks through the horizon, and I want the moon to watch me kiss you goodnight every night and tell you I love you. I want the entire cosmos to bear witness to my love for you, Harry Styles, because there is nothing more celestial than you.”

Louis’ smiling that ethereal smile that makes Harry’s heart stutter in its rhythm always, and Harry unclasps his chain with trembling hands, because this moment is precious and Harry doesn’t want to fuck it up, and he hopes that twenty years from now, he can still remember it vividly because, fuck, Louis looks gorgeous with faint purple bruises on his neck and lips red and kiss bitten. Harry lets the chain drop on his chest and holds the ring between his thumb and index finger. Louis’ watching him curiously. “Got these a while ago for your birthday,” Harry speaks quietly. “This is mine, but got a matching one for you, too, and it’s been sitting in my old room. Was gonna give it to you when you came back, but.” He knocks their foreheads together, closing his eyes when he admits, “I’ve been wearing mine since, just waiting for you.”

Louis runs a thumb across his cheek, his touch feather light. “Can I wear it?” When Harry’s eyes blink open, Louis gives him the crooked smile that always melts his heart. “Yours, I mean. Can I wear yours now?”

“Yeah,” Harry beams, and slides the ring onto Louis’ middle finger, and kisses the smile that spreads on Louis’ face. “I, Harry Styles, promise to choose you, Louis Tomlinson, above everything else, always,” he repeats the words from another lifetime, and means them that much more this time.

Louis grins wider into the kiss, whispering his own promise into Harry’s lips, “I, Louis Tomlinson, promise to choose you, Harry Styles, above everything else, always and forever.” Harry presses a kiss to Louis’ knuckles, right where the ring sits snug on his finger. These are promises that will last forever, Harry knows. These are promises that’ll be fulfilled one day at a time. When tomorrow comes, Harry will give Louis the ring that’s still in its silver box, and tomorrow, Harry will love Louis a little more.

Every tomorrow, he’ll fill the universe with a little more love for Louis Tomlinson.


	7. let tomorrow come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's red tulips and white calla lilies and butterflies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it everyone! thank you soooo much to everyone who gave this story a chance and left a kudos or commented, and i hope u enjoyed it! we've reached the end, and i'm really happy with it.
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr, i'll be there until i write something else! lots of love - syeda

“Bebe, no, do m’ hair first,” six years old Harriet chastises her older brother, taking the small bottle of nail varnish from his hands and setting it aside. She turns her little body around so she’s got her back to Harry and scoots back on the floor until she’s touching Harry’s crossed legs. “Do it like Fizzy does it.” Fizzy does it lots of different way, but Harry doesn’t say that. Instead, he runs a brush through Harriet’s dark blond curls and begins a complicated fishtail braid that a child her age really should not be demanding. While Harry works, Harriet tells him about her plans for the day, which consist of going to the shops with Lottie for a last minute something for Doris, then coming back and getting ready for the ceremony, and _then_ making sure everything is in order – all the flowers are in their proper places, little silver boxes set right on the table, because, “Bubba, what if Mum didn’t get it right.”

Harry’s heart is full of tender affection the whole time she’s talking, smiling every time she calls him a nickname. See, when Harriet started talking, she called Harry _Hawy,_ which was cute, but their mum also tried to teach her _big brother,_ which turned into _big bubba_ and, ultimately, _bebe._ Harriet no longer calls him Harry; it’s always Bebe or Bubba, or, sometimes, Haz, which she picked up from Gemma.

Harry finishes her braid, which falls just past her shoulders, and they get started on painting her tiny nails. Her flower girl is baby pink, so that’s the color of the nail varnish, and it also matches Harriet’s rosy cheeks. She’s got Harry’s green eyes and every time he looks into them, he feels like his heart could burst in his chest because this little one shares more than just her name with him. They have the same mannerisms that some people find quite annoying at times, like eating off of other people’s plates and laughing unnecessarily loudly at something, or leaving doors open and getting too hot when everyone else feels chilly. Oh, and also stealing some of Gemma’s nail varnish any time they can.

“Harry, be quick, I need to leave and get back in time,” Félicité peeks into Harry’s bedroom, Doris holding her hand. Upon seeing what’s happening, Doris runs into the room where they’re sat on the floor.

“Do mine, do mine,” she hops up and down, eyes alight. Fizzy tells her they’ve got to go now or they’ll be late for the wedding.

“Later, yeah?” Harry says, knowing there might be an argument coming. “Come back from the shops quick and then we’ll do yours, okay? I’ll get ready before you get back.” Doris considers this, a tiny pout on her lips, and then reluctantly agrees on the compromise. “Gimme a kiss?” Harry smiles brightly, just to get one in return from his little soon-to-be sister-in-law, and he does. Doris kisses Harry’s cheek just as he finishes painting Harriet’s nails. She gives him a kiss, too, her hands held up away from her face, and then off they go, and Harry’s left alone in the bedroom. In just four short hours is his wedding.

It took a lot to get to this day. The last six years consisted of good days and bad days, days where nothing was wrong and days where not a single thing felt right. There were times Harry was ready to give up, ready to throw in the towel and call it quits, because was the _point,_ but then Louis was there coaxing Harry back from the edge. And even that was difficult sometimes, because like a petulant child holding a grudge, Harry lashed out at Louis, reminding Louis he _left._ Who was to say he wouldn’t leave again? So Louis would show him the ring he hadn’t taken off since the first time he put it on, the ring Harry bought for him when they were kids. It took many new promises, it took years of therapy, it took many breakdowns, but he’s here. He still has bad days, because depression isn’t the kind of thing that _disappears._ It’s there, somewhere, in the back of his head, and it rears its ugly head from time to time, but he knows how to deal with it now. He knows he doesn’t have to hide it, or hide from it.

There was one day when he thought he would fall back in his hole, when he thought there really is no way for him to recover – the day Liam graduated from uni, because Zayn was supposed to be there, too. He was meant to be sat with the rest of the graduates, ready for the rest of his life, but he was somewhere far, far away six feet under. That was the day Harry shut himself away in his room, refused to open it for anyone and cried all fucking day because he again felt responsible for the sorry fate of his best friend. He fractured his wrist and broke his thumb when he punched the wall.  It took seven sessions with his therapist for him to get recover from it.

So now he’s here, standing in his and Louis’ house, getting ready for his wedding. Anne has planned everything exactly like Harry wanted, from calla lilies and butterflies to coordinated dresses for the girls. Louis had exactly two demands: the cake must be a masterpiece and get his approval; Harry must get anything and everything he wants at the ceremony. Getting everything perfect took months and months of planning, from picking the date to creating the menu and choosing a venue. Anne did almost all of the hard work, but Harry still stressed about essentially everything leading up to this moment, but right now he’s content as he can be.

He’s made it this far. He’s twenty-six years old, he’s been in love for a decade, and he’s getting married to the love of his life. He knows there’s more for them to do, that this is just the beginning, but he feels a sense of accomplishment. They’ve talked about children, have talked at length about how many they want and when, have picked out names. (That’s a lie, as they’ve only bickered about names; Harry keeps insisting on Bia for their first girl, but Louis keeps pushing for Sofia. They both agree on Arlo for their son.) They’re only in their twenties, they know they have their whole life ahead of them, but Harry knows that in a year’s time, he’ll have a little baby Tomlinson to call his.  

He’s styling his hair when the bedroom door creaks open and Louis walks in, making Harry clamp both hands over his own eyes. “We’re not supposed to see each other!” he yelps, turning his back on Louis. “It’s bad luck, Lou, go!”

“Babe, I think we’re past all our bad luck,” Louis laughs, and Harry thinks he can hear him padding across the room to him. “Just wanna talk to you for a bit.” And, yes, those are Louis’ arms wrapping around his waist and Harry groans his protest when Louis _sniffs_ him. “You smell so good.”

“Can’t you wait till later?” Harry asks, hands still covering his eyes, “I’m gonna see you in, like, three hours.”

“Yeah, but that’ll be when you’re walking down the aisle with your mum and I wanna tell you something before that.” Louis places a tender kiss to the shell of Harry’s ear and says, “I tried memorizing my vows for later, but I might mess them up. Think I’m gonna forget, to be honest, when everyone’s watching, so I wanna tell you them now. ’S that okay?”

Harry thinks his heart just fucking melted at those words, so he turns around in place and faces his fiancé, who’s still wearing blue jeans and a jumper. Still looks lovely, though. “Let’s hear it, then,” Harry tips his head expectantly, because traditions and superstitions be damned if it means the two of them get to have this moment away from a hundred eyes.

Louis takes out a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, then laughs under his breath. “I really, really tried to remember it, but I got carried away, so don’t mind me needing assistance. I’m just gonna wing the silly one later, but I wanna tell you this now.” He grins at Harry, eyes full of stars. “Here goes.” Louis straightens the piece of paper, clears his throat dramatically more than once, and Harry’s just so fucking endeared. This is _his_ boy. His entire world. “I’ve known you since we were kids, and I’ve been in love with you since I was eighteen and we were still kids. I’ve wanted you every day since and I’ll never not want you. You’re my best friend, my favorite friend, my favorite _person,_ and you’re the love of my life. Everything of mine is yours. I didn’t believe in soulmates before I realized you’re mine.” His voice is quivering now, his hands shaking, and Harry’s heart is going a million miles an hour. He can feel tears in his eyes and can see the wobble in Louis’ lips. “I think – I’m certain my soul is infused with yours, because when you’re hurting, I feel your pain in my very bones. When you’re happy and filled with joy, I feel your happiness settle in my heart like it belongs there and nowhere else.” Louis looks up from the paper with wet eyes, but he’s still smiling that breathtaking smile, and Harry wipes under his eyes. “You have always been the person to complete me, the one to always guide me home – because you are home. There is no me with you, nor would I ever want there to be. Perhaps we’re two broken pieces of the same soul, I don’t know, but I do know where we belong, and it’s right next to each other. I cannot wait to spend every tomorrow with you.”

Harry’s smiling through his tears, murmuring a fond _you sappy bastard_ to Louis, because he wasn’t ready for this. He knew Louis was working on his vows, because Louis kept so secretive about it and didn’t give Harry a single clue, but just said there’d be two versions and he’d pick randomly on the day of. Now Harry knows Louis never meant to pick randomly, that he always meant to share this with Harry privately. He feels his heart swell and he rests his arms on Louis’ shoulder, locking his hands together behind his neck. “Louis Tomlinson,” he begins, voice unsteady and so full of emotion, “I’m going to love you until my dying breath, and even after that, perhaps my soul will linger around until it finds yours again. Because you are at the center of my very being, Louis, I don’t exist without you. Through thick and thin, my heart will continue beating just for you until I die. My mind, my heart, my soul – they’re all imprinted with your name on them and they all belong to you and I hope,” he rests his forehead against Louis’, “I hope you take good care of them.”

And it doesn’t matter that Harry just said the vows he planned for the ceremony because Louis stands on Harry’s feet just then and kisses him. And, god, it’s the gentlest kiss Harry’s ever had, so fucking delicate and tender, he feels his breath hitch. This is – this is everything. He feels the cool metal of Louis’ ring press into his cheek when Louis’ hands frame his face and they’re both smiling into the kiss, both grinning like fools and unable to let go of each other. “I love you… Harry Tomlinson,” Louis breathes into his mouth. “Gonna love you forever.”

Harry’s heart loses its rhythm. “Say it again.”

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Harry shakes his head, smile so wide it hurts. “Say my name.”

And Louis fucking lights up, eyes so bright and his whole body just exuding so much love and pride. “Harry Tomlinson,” he whispers, then says it again, a bit louder, “Harry Tomlinson. I love you, Harry Tomlinson.” And, Harry thinks, his name has never sounded better falling from anyone’s lips.

*

The wedding itself is a fairly quiet affair, the audience consisting of just their families and close friends – and their dog, Jake. (Louis picked the name, despite many protests from Harry, because, honestly, pets should not have human names, but that’s a battle he couldn’t win.) When it came to the semantics of the ceremony, Harry decidedly very early on to screw what might be considered appropriate or traditional. There are four flower girls – Doris, Harriet, Phoebe, Daisy – and Gemma is Harry’s maid of honour. He walks down the aisle with his mum on his right side, who looks gorgeous in her lavender dress, and Jay on his left.

See, Jay survived. It took three extensive treatments of chemo, all of which drained the life out of her as much as they saved her, and when she was finally, _finally_ cancer-free, Harry cried. “When I marry your son,” he told her, “I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

Liam is there, and his girlfriend of almost two years is sitting with everyone else. He smiles warmly when he catches Harry’s eye, and a million unsaid words pass between them. Michelle is lovely. Liam found her during a family vacation to Italy and she’s the only person who has been able to chip away at those walls Liam put up after Zayn. He didn’t see anyone for almost a year and half, said he felt like he was cheating, and Harry couldn’t blame him, couldn’t push him. But two years ago, he met Michelle and, eventually, let himself love again.

So this is the wedding. It’s white and pink garlands around trees and branches. It’s a white carpet on the grass leading to the altar. It’s red flower petals carefully strewn about everywhere. It’s Harry’s sisters waiting for him with everyone as he walks down a white aisle with two mothers on his arms. It’s Louis standing at the altar, eyes shining when Harry approaches him with tears down his cheeks.

It’s Louis trying to mask his emotions by giggling and squeezing Harry’s hands when he whispers, “Are you _crying,_ Harold?”

“Yeah, so are you.”

It’s Louis promising to always choose Harry, even if he snores through the night and wakes up before the sun does. It’s Harry giggling through their vows, everyone laughing at them. It’s sapphire and emerald embedding rings, their undersides engraved with the words _always you._ It’s Harry and Louis dancing with their giant dog, it’s them dancing with their tiny siblings, it’s them finding butterflies sat on their shoulders and on chairs, it’s Louis taking Harry home and it’s them staying awake until the sun comes up.

It’s the promise to love each other tomorrow, as many times as tomorrow comes.

**Author's Note:**

> [fic post is here if you would like to reblog!](https://rosesau.tumblr.com/post/162462308606/bittersweet-delicate-tomorrow-may-not-come)


End file.
